


The Choice

by beneath_a_moonless_night



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Adventure, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Medieval, F/M, Fluff and Angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-31
Updated: 2016-04-05
Packaged: 2018-03-20 13:53:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 41,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3652851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beneath_a_moonless_night/pseuds/beneath_a_moonless_night
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"There are but two sure things in this world, Princess- Life and Death. What will you choose?" Medieval Bellarke AU!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The world is not black and white anymore. It is not split into good and bad, light and dark, love and hate. The lines are blurred. As Clarke watched the man she loved climb the scaffolding to his death, and felt her heart race, she wondered if there was a right or wrong choice here. All she had was her own selfish desire, the cold knife in her hand and his first words to her echoing in her head.  
"There are only two sure things in this world, Princess- Life and death. What will you choose?"

Clarke supposed it started the day her heart was broken for the first time in her life. If Finn had not hurt her like that, she would never have agreed to the arranged marriage, would never have had to travel all that distance and would never have been in the situation she was in now. If one thought on it like that, she had Finn to thank for this. Fate was a strange old thing.  
Sir Finn Collins of the Ark guard was the walking embodiment of the word "charming". His words were as delightful as flowers; his looks were something a girl thought she could only dream up as she slept. So yes, when she had felt his eyes on her at dinner, saw his half smiles as he unabashedly stared at her, she was more than flattered. Their courtship was unexpected by no one. Her mother approved, the courtiers gossiped and Clarke felt she would experience a marriage based on love and trust, something few had. Of course, she should have known it was not to last. When did anything ever turn out well for her?

"Clarke," Finn had begun one day as they walked in the gardens. The air was still heavy with the scent of summer, but it was bittersweet. The breezes were just that slightest bit colder, the flowers just that little duller. Leaves were browning at their edges, threatening to spill to the ground. Soon, fires would be fed, meat salted, crops pickled in preparation for the cold winter that was undoubtedly come within the coming weeks. It was the end of Clarke's best summer in memory. And perhaps the start of the best winter Clarke thought slyly to herself, noticing Finn's solemn expression.

He held a letter in his hands, and shifted from foot to foot as if he longed to run away. "Clarke, there's something I must tell you. Something I should have told you from the start."  
Clarke felt a flutter of dread in her chest, but did not let it show on her face.  
"Finn you can tell me anything, you know that."  
He scoffed a little, as if he knew that statement was a falsehood. She supposed it was in a way- if he could not have told her that at the beginning.

"When I came here, before I came here, I was… Clarke, I was betrothed." He stammered out, taking a step towards her, as she took a step away. He took her shocked silence as permission to continue.  
"I was, we all were, so sure she was gone, her family was ruined, that we did not even check to confirm… It was foolish. I came here as was planned, and Clarke, you were so beautiful, all thought of her in my heart was gone." He said gently, catching a wisp of her hair between his fingers. The silence surrounding them was so peaceful it felt mocking. Clarke took a shallow breath and steadied herself, her skirts suddenly feeling very heavy.

"You were wrong obviously. She… has returned?" Clarke said, proud of how strong her voice sounded. It didn't shake once. Her heart dropped further into her stomach as Finn nodded.  
"I have received a letter", he said, showing her the sheet of parchment in his hand, "from my father asking me to return home, to 'fulfill my duty' to Raven…" He trailed off, frowning as if in doubt. He shook the feeling off, his eyes returning to Clarke's.  
"You understand, don't you? How would I ever get credibility as a loyal soldier, if couldn't even keep a promise to my family, to my, to my…" he said stammering into silence again, waiting for Clarke's reaction.  
"Your betrothed" Clarke finished softly. He nodded. It was ironic, Clarke thought, how deafening a silence could be. When Finn refused to speak, Clarke did not know how long she could stay under his intense gaze. After what felt like eons, she met his eye.  
"You should return home to your lady, Sir Collins." He stiffened at her formal tone.  
"Clarke, you must know how changed my feelings are, that I love you and under different circumstances-" He spoke quickly, desperately, and Clarke could take it no longer.  
"Good-day Sir Collins... Finn." And with that, she spun on her hell and walked away, and once she was out of his sight she ran.

Clarke saw the image of the bird clearly in her head, but her hand refused to do her bidding. She dragged heavy dark lines across her attempted sketch before leaving it on her bench, and pulling her knees up to her chin. How long would art avoid her? When he was here, she could not stop the pictures in her head from flowing out on to sheets of parchment, paper, wood, whatever she could get her hands on. Now the creativity flitted in and out of her head, tempting her, dancing just out of reach... It was infuriating.  
She welcomed the distraction of a heavy knock against the door, straightening her skirt and sleeves, just as her mother entered the room. A twinge of disappointment coursed through her mind, and then she chastised herself inwardly, for thinking it could have been anyone else.

"Good Lord, Clarke, however can you see in this darkness? You shall ruin your eyes." Her mother said in her brisk way, opening shutters and curtains, as she marched around the room. Clarke flinched at the light that flooded her room, and winced at the mess the light revealed. Crumpled paper, empty glasses and plates lay about, in a mess that screamed depression. She almost felt ashamed for allowing her heart this much control over her actions. Her father had allowed his heart to control his actions.  
Look where that got him.

Lady Abigail took her daughter's hands in her own and pulled her over to sit on one of the low couches. She fidgeted with her hair for a few moments, pushing it away from her daughters face until it lay smooth. With a smile that seemed forced she folded her hands on her lap.  
"How do you feel about spending the winter season at the King's court?" She said in an uncharacteristically happy voice. Clarke rose an eyebrow at the statement.  
"The King's Court? Why, have I been invited?" Abigail nodded enthusiastically. She explained briefly that King Thelonious was planning a long festival for the eighteenth birthday of his eldest son Wells. Clarke's expression darkened at the mention of him. She and Wells had been childhood friends. But as childhood came to an end, and with him training to be King, and her training to become the elegant Lady and dutiful wife she would one day become, they drifted apart. However the death of their friendship had been the day he chose his duty to his father over her. They had not spoken in years.  
"It would do you well to spend a winter in the city. I need not tell you that our future rests with you, or rather your future husband-" Her mother started, and Clarke let out a loud sigh.  
"You need not dress up the facts in ribbons for me, mother. Thelonious wants me to court Wells doesn't he?" she said bitterly. She knew it was coming. She remember the king from her childhood, he had often joked about joining their houses. And now with no Lord in the house, no chance of a son for Abigail, he knew, everyone knew, that Clarke would have to marry well if the Griffins of Ark wanted to keep their land. As Queen, Clarke would have the power to do that, and then some.

"Wells is still very fond of you Clarke. If you were to marry, and should God bless you with a second son, succession would no longer matter. At least think about, my darling..." Clarke held up a hand to stop her.  
"I have no reason to think about it. I'll do it. There's nothing for me here."

And now Clarke sat on her horse, moving with the horse's steady movements as she and her company rode to the City. The journey would take a good week, what with the carts full of clothes and jewels, that would help her to win the heart of a prince. She tried to ignore the stiffness in her neck and her chilled fingers, and appreciate the beauty of the crisp autumn morning and the nature that went with it. They rode for another half an hour before Sir Kane held back and rode beside her.  
"I feel I should warn you m'lady, we are about to enter bandit territories. They should not trouble us, as we have so many men, but you should be on your guard."  
His expression softened after a few seconds of silence, and he let out a short laugh.  
"They say these are the lands the Rebel King walks." Even Clarke had to laugh at that.

The Rebel King was a story that began several years ago, after there was a sudden rise in robberies on the road. When it seemed certain that these bandits had a leader, people of course began to wonder who the leader was. The common folk began to spread rumours, about the young man who spoke as he was talking to knights of the round table instead of ruffians, who inspired courage in the most spineless of thieves and held himself like a king. Clarke had even heard some of her own maids, bragging about how he had paid them a visit in the night. Some said, he was actually once a honest man, now trying to provide for his young wife, some even went so far to say he was the bastard heir to noble house Blake, but after a year or so, the stories died away. The robberies however, did not. Clarke dismissed the whole thing as nonsense.

As they quickened their pace in an effort to leave the dangerous area, Clarke had to repeat the phrase "utter nonsense" to herself often, as the cold feeling of being watched spread over her shoulders. Her imagination ran wild, as she pictured a head of dark curls amongst the fallen bracken and leaves. At one point she could have sworn she saw a pair of brown eyes winking at her. Finally the sense of paranoia became too strong, and she asked Kane if they could stop for a breath. Just as he nodded, fear shot across his face, and he screamed for Clarke to hide. Clarke turned to find at least fifty men surrounding them. She ran for her horse and leapt on to the saddle, but a hand grabbed her ankle and yanked her to the ground. Her head struck the floor, and later, she couldn't even remember her last conscious thought.

She opened her eyes to find herself moved several feet away from where she fell. Looking around, she saw her men lying still everywhere, and felt her stomach churn at what that meant. She sighed in relief when she found Sir Kane, very battered but alive. Her relief was short lived however, as one of the ruffians walked over to her.

"Aren't you the pretty one?" He said quietly, his voice making her skin crawl. "I bet, we could use you for more than your jewels, am I right m'lady?" He said leering over her chest.  
Clarke spat at his face, and the satisfaction of it didn't leave her, even after the back of his hand hit across her cheek.  
"Bitch." He muttered wiping her spit from the side of his mouth. Clarke used the distraction to give him a swift kick in the shin. When he roared in pain, she took off from the ground and began to run. A fire-like pain spread swiftly from her ankle, every time she put weight on it- she must have sprained it when she was pulled from the horse. She tried to ignore it, but it of course slowed her down. Within seconds, she was captured again, a thrown on the ground beside Kane. He gave her such a pitiful look, Clarke wanted to spit in his face as well. Let him give up if he wanted. She was not going to die here without giving them hell for it.  
"You're going to pay for that you whore." spat the man she had kicked. He raised his hand as if to strike her again.

"Murphy. That's enough." A new voice called from the horses. It rang with authority, and Clarke found herself sitting straighter just at it's tone. She shot a glance at him, and knew who he was, without him introducing himself. Dark hair, tall, carrying himself as if he were royalty... this was the Rebel King.  
Just nonsense a voice sneered in the back of her head. How she wished that were true.

"Kill them both, but don't dishonour the girl Murphy. Let her die a Lady." He said with a laugh, smiling at her as if he had done her a favour. Clarke wanted to tear his head from his body. The man he called Murphy let out a grunt of disappointment, but approached her with a knife. Clarke was just about to greet death, when someone rather unexpected spoke out from the carts- a girl. Under other circumstances, Clarke would have laughed. Perhaps the Rebel King was just trying to provide for his young wife.

"Bell, wait", she said quickly. Clarke strained her neck to see what was happening. The girl was lifting her dresses from one of the trunks, feeling the material between her fingers.  
"Look at these Bell- cloth of gold, ivory silks, fur trimmed hoods... these aren't just for a week at the fair, these are dresses for a courtship... she's important. Find out who she is." The girl, finished turning to stare at Clarke. Within a moment, all eyes turned on her. Clarke felt her self blush out of habit.  
The King, Bell?, strode over to her casually. He knelt before her with a heavy sigh, as if the effort of it tired him. With him so close, Clarke could see how young he was. He even had the lightest dusting of freckles. She also noticed how her heart fluttered a little, from fear of course, Clarke told her self later.

He pulled a knife from his boot, and played with it for a moment, before holding it against her throat. His eyes never left hers.  
"There are only two sure things in this world, Princess- Life and death. What will you choose?"

He repeated the question again, pressing the knife closer to her throat for emphasis. Clarke held his gaze, telling him with her silence that she would not speak. She'd die, without selling herself.  
"Fine," he muttered, "have it your way." He stood up swiftly, no sign of his previous exhaustion, and for a sliver of a moment, Clarke thought he looked... resigned? The moment passed, and with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, he threw the knife at Kane. It landed, stuck in the ground, an ant's width away from his leg. Kane looked at it confused. The men watching laughed.

"You'll kill her." The rebel king said, folding his arms. Kane looked at him aghast.  
"I will not!"  
The leader rolled his eyes, and with a quick hand motion, five men strung their bows, all aiming at Clarke. Her mouth went dry as she saw Kane pick up the knife.  
"This is what is going to happen good sir knight. You can kill your Lady with mercy, or my friends here will send five arrows into her stomach an arm, a leg... She'd die screaming. For some reason," He said kneeling down beside them once more, "I believe m'lady here, has never experienced an arrow wound. If you slit her throat and make it quick we'll even return you the favour."

Clarke looked around wildly, for a sympathetic gaze, some compassionate soul willing to stop this. She met the eye of the girl by the cart. She was chewing on her bottom lip, clutching one of Clarke's ball gowns to her chest. she gave Clarke a miniscule shake of her head, before turning away. Clarke brought herself back to reality. Kane knelt beside her the silver knife clutched in his hand. The King had stepped away, raising an eyebrow, watching to see what would unfold.  
"I'm sorry M'lady." Kane said gruffly, lifting the knife higher, before turning the hilt at the last second pulling the blade towards his own throat.  
"Stop! Wait!" Clarke screamed, just before the knife pierced his skin.  
"I'll tell you, just please, stop this atrocity!" She said her voice filled with desperation, and a little anger. The leader nodded at one of the men, who yanked the knife from Kane, and kicked him to the ground.

"You were saying, Princess?" said the leader, urging her on with his hand. Clarke grimaced before pushing herself up from the ground. Her ankle throbbed, and she felt herself sway for a moment, then steadied herself.  
"My name is Lady Clarke Griffin, of Ark." She said, the familiar words bringing some courage into her blood. Who were they to challenge her? They may have strength of body, but she had strength of soul. She pulled her shoulders back, and held herself in the manner she had been taught since she could walk.  
"I am travelling to meet his majesty King Thelonious in the capital, where I am to be, I believe, affianced to his son."  
The leader raised an eyebrow. "It seems we do have a princess in our company." He made a low, mocking bow. "Fair lady, I am Bellamy, King of rebels, lord amongst ruffians. Your flowery words do us great honour we assure you, it has been a long time since us simple men have heard so pleasant a speech." He said, every word dripping with sarcasm. Clarke felt herself grinding her teeth. This man was beyond infuriating. Several unladylike names fluttered through her mind, daring to leave through her voice. She kept her mouth shut.

"My lady, you say the King if expecting you?" He said approaching her with his arms crossed. She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.  
"Then this day has proved a lot more eventful than I had previously thought." He grabbed her by her arms, and began pulling her towards the horses.  
"Someone find Octavia, we travel back to camp now." He yelled behind them. Once they reached the horses, he swiftly tied her hands to one of the saddles. Clarke gave him a withering look, and he shrugged.  
"Can't have you running princess." Suddenly he ducked down to her feet, and Clarke instinctively kicked him. He swore, before grabbing her leg. "Hold still," He muttered pulling yet another knife from God knows where and quickly cut a long strip from her forest green riding gown. He stood again, and gave her a grin.  
"Sorry to ruin your pretty dress, m'lady." He pushed her hair from her shoulders and Clarke hated how she felt herself blush when his thumb brushed against her cheek. She later realised that she had been touched by more men in the last hour, than she had been in all her seventeen years. And then everything went dark, and she found he was blindfolding her- with her own dress!  
"Secret camp?" She muttered, letting her disdain fill her voice, since he could no longer see it in her eyes.  
"Can never be too careful," Bellamy answered, "Let's move!" She heard him shout, and then felt someone mounting the horse she was tied to. She turned herself in the general direction of the movement.  
"I don't think I can walk, my ankle is sprained." She tried to explain, but someone knocked into her. "You'll walk. Let the privileged work for once." Murphy said to her. She could see his grin, even with her blindfold.  
"Try not to fall over." A young voice said in a cheerful tone, and Clarke felt herself being pulled forward.

Clarke had tripped over her skirts three times. Her heavy riding boots were not meant for long periods of walking, and she was constantly stepping on the long skirt, pulling herself forward. They had left the road almost immediately and Clarke had been stumbling, quite literally blind, through marsh and mud for hours now. This didn't help her dress predicament.  
Suddenly she felt the material go under her foot again, but this time, she stumbled into the horse, spooking it. The animal jolted forward a few paces, and it's rider calmed it quickly, but not before it had pulled Clarke to the ground. With no hands for protection, her chin bore the brunt of the fall. She felt it the sting of cold air on broken skin straight away, and let out a frustrated cry.

"What, in God's name, is going on back there?" Bellamy yelled, and then she heard the sound of heavy footsteps approaching her. Hands grabbed her arms roughly and pulled her to her feet.  
"Well? What's the problem, Princess? Never walked before?" Bellamy said, his voice tainted with frustration. Clarke stored her hatred for the man at the back of her head and answered calmly.  
"I keep tripping over my dress. I am dressed for riding not walking, which, I can assure you, I have done plenty of."  
Without warning he pulled out a knife, and Clarke heard the ripping of material, before she felt her dress getting lighter. She gasped in shock as she realised Bellamy was cutting her dress short, right below her knees. The strange sensation of wind brushing past her legs distracted her from the embarrassment she should have felt. And anyway, her riding boots came up almost to her thigh- it was not like they could see skin. She even somewhat admired Bellamy for his innovation.

"It'll be dark before we get to camp," Bellamy yelled, "We've wasted enough time."  
And with that the company started moving again.

The muffled sounds of a village grew louder and louder until Clarke felt she was at the heart of one. The man on her horse stepped down, and removed her blindfold. Once her eyes adjusted, she realised he wasn't a man at all, but a boy around the same age as herself, with a face far too friendly and cheerful to be a bandit. He set about untying her hands, and Clarke took in her surroundings. This was no camp for thieves. This was a thriving village, full of people, young and old. Children rushed to the cart, some running to the men, searching their pockets for toys and trinkets, while the men laughed good-naturedly. Clarke couldn't have been more surprised if God himself revealed himself from the bonfire that burned merrily at the centre of the camp.

"We call ourselves the 100, though our numbers have long surpassed that number," the boy said cheerfully, as his fingers fumbled with the rope, "we have everything we could need; carpenters, millers, hunters, though we could use a good healer-"

"Jasper." Bellamy said roughly, placing a warning hand on his shoulder. "That's enough."  
Jasper nodded, giving Clarke a parting smile and cheery wave. Under different circumstances Clarke may have smiled back. Bellamy rolled his eyes. He pulled a knife from his sleeve, (Clarke wondered if it was the same knife he had used to cut her dress, or if he kept an infinite supply under his shirt), and cut the rope from her wrists. Clarke gasped in surprise at the red, chafed marks left on her wrists and hands. He seemed to frown an the state of her hands, it was hard to tell in the darkness, and placed a hand on her back, leading her forward.

He stopped at a small cabin, and gestured for her to step in. She moved into the room, and was surprised to see a bed, table, and a small serving of food and ale. She contemplated throwing the meal to the ground and using the metal plate as her escape weapon but decided against it. Better to save her energy for when she was sure she could escape. Bellamy leant against the doorframe, arms folded, and was watching her with a curious expression on his face. She took the time to look at him too.  
He was tall, but not thin, he filled his height. Clarke thought that bandits like him were supposed to be gaunt and starving not so... strong. She supposed his features lived up to the romantic ballads and stories the maids spread about. Not that it mattered.  
The candlelight revealed a fresh looking scar across his cheek, probably a result of the skirmish earlier today. Was it only today? It seemed a far longer time had passed. Bellamy spoke, interrupting her reflection.

"Eat. Sleep. Rest that ankle, no doubt we'll be headed for the capital at dawn." He said, and left the hut, closing the crumbling door behind him. Clarke heard him muttering orders to men outside. She laughed. As if she could escape, even if she tried.  
Looking about the tiny room, she felt a sudden urge to hit something. Bellamy's face would have been ideal, but she settled for table. Forgetting her ankle, she kicked it hard, and despite the fire that flew up her leg, felt the satisfaction. This continued for a minute or so, until the pain became to much and she threw herself onto the bed. To angry to cry, she rolled onto her stomach, and let sleep take her away.

Pain. Something was stinging her chin. Her eyes flew open on find the girl from before sitting beside her, dabbing at her face with a rag. The girl paused for a moment, watching Clarke carefully, before shrugging and continuing with her work.  
"My name is Octavia," She said, as if she were introducing herself to a guest, not a hostage, "I'm cleaning the cut on your chin, in case you were wondering. I have to prevent infection- the smallest scratch can kill you out here." She said calmly, as she dabbed the cloth at the wound on Clarke's chin.  
She was very pretty, beautiful even, with long dark hair twisted into plaits all over her head, and wide eyes framed with thick lashes. Octavia looked just as out of place here, as Clarke imagined she herself did.

"Sorry if my brother scared you before. He would never have killed you and your guard, he just needed to find out who you were." Octavia said as she washed the rag in a basin, and dried her hands.  
Clarke raised an eyebrow. "It seemed real to me." she muttered, taking off her boots, careful around her right ankle, where the pain seemed to worsen. Her fit earlier of course had made it worse. Ocatavia then set about wrapping up Clarke's ankle.  
"My brother is not a murderer," She said, her voice serious before she smiled again, "This is the last time I treat your wounds by the way. Out here you look after yourself or you die."  
Clarke nodded, pushing herself up, until she was sitting.  
"Understood."

When she was done, Octavia picked up a bundle and dropped it beside Clarke. She unfolded them, and found them to be clothes- men's clothes. A shirt, jacket and long breeches. Octavia laughed at Clarke's bewildered expression.  
"Bell did marvelous work on your lovely riding gown, but these might be a little more comfortable to travel in."  
Clarke nodded and began to remove her now frayed dress. Octavia was right, the dress was ruined. Yet another reason to loathe this girl's brother- he had ruined a perfectly good gown. For people who had so little, they certainly didn't mind waste.  
"Will I be travelling?" Clarke asked apprehensively. Octavia shrugged.  
"From what I gather there's quite the discussion about you. Bellamy wants to return you to the king in exchange for a reward, and, if possible, a pardon for all of us. Murphy however, wants to hold you hostage, make the king aware of it, and bring the fight here."

Clarke scoffed. "What would you have to gain from that? A thousand corpses, and perhaps a pretty ballad sung about the brave rebels and their fallen King?"  
Octavia laughed.  
"That's what Bellamy said. Murphy believes that we have enough men and arms to put up a fight. Once we defeat the king's own army, we could demand our own terms. Perhaps he's right." She mused to herself, tidying at random.  
"Eat that meal before I do, and then 'll take you to the discussion. Bellamy wants to know the likelihood of a reward should he return you to the King."

True to her word, Octavia waited for Clarke to finish her food. Though it was a simple dish- cold chicken, hard cheese and bread, it was the first meal she had had in hours and she just about stopped herself from licking her fingers. Satisfied that she was ready, Octavia skipped out the door, gesturing for Clarke to follow.  
"Come on," she said, quite loudly over the din of the village, "Let's find out your fate."

After a long enough walk, Octavia stopped at a large tent. She entered, Clarke following behind her. Inside was a long table, filled with maps and mugs of ale. Around it were about ten men, all fighting for their voice to be heard above the rest- Except for Bellamy, who was seated, feet resting on the table, watching the ruckus with a bemused grin. He noticed her and Octavia, giving Octavia a nod and a smile and Clarke a mock bow from his chair.

"Gentlemen!" He shouted and there was so sudden a silence, Clarke flinched. She couldn't help but be in awe by how much power this man, just old enough to be considered a man, had over his people. What had he done, to command this much respect from his peers?  
"Gentlemen," he continued, "The lady in question has arrived, though I hardly recognise her without her finery. Are you rested, m'lady?" He said with false concern. Clarke's eyes narrowed.  
"Well rested, good sir."  
"Good, good." He said, and then rose from his seat, making a show of dusting it off.  
"Please sit."

Clarke was sure they expected her to refuse his hospitality, or throw a tantrum at their blatant disrespect for her, but instead she took the seat, giving him a wide fake smile in thanks. Better they think her naïve than capable.  
"I must ask you, since some of my men have concerns- The King would reward us for the safe return of his future daughter would he not?" His expression asked the question innocently, as if he didn't know what answer she would give, but his eyes said something else. Their hard, pointed expression told her there was only one answer she could give.

"Of course. The King is very generous to those who are loyal to him and his family. I am sure if I am taken to the city safely, you will be handsomely compensated for your time." She answered, returning the pointed expression. To most, their conversation was just questions and answers, but Clarke knew they were discussing the terms of her freedom. One wrong answer that scared the men, and she'd be stuck here, waiting to die.  
Bellamy gave her a small nod, silently accepting the terms of her agreement.  
"You see men? Handsomely rewarded. Why waste the time and effort of a war, when we are guaranteed what we want for far less?" They all nodded, one or two let out a cheer.  
Bellamy turned back around to face her.  
"Go back and get some more sleep, princess. We leave at dawn."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The journey begins and there are complications....

Bellamy woke her up at an hour so early, Clarke was sure it could still be considered night. It would seem that the Rebel King was many things, but a liar was not amongst them. After rousing her with a quick shove to the shoulder, he left a small bucket of water beside her bed. Clarke eyed it warily as she pushed herself up from the warmth of her bed. It couldn't compare with her four poster bed back at Ark castle, laden with goose-feather pillows and woolen sheets. But, it was warm and she had fallen into a dreamless sleep the second she lay down on it. No doubt tonight she would toss and turn with worry and fear.

"I'm not going to dump it on you princess, I just thought you'd be accustomed to washing in the morning. It'll be your last chance before we leave, so make the most of it." he said gruffly, his voice filled with poorly disguised tiredness. She gave him a small nod in thanks and he left.  
She pulled on her boots, wincing as the boot slid over her swollen ankle. They could hardly expect her to walk on it could they? From what little she'd seen so far, they probably wouldn't care.  
She turned to the bucket, and caught a glimpse of her reflection in the water. Her blonde hair had fallen out of it's elegant plait, and now hung around her face. Her lip was slightly swollen from where Murphy had hit her, there was a small poppy bruise on her forehead, and the scar on her chin had begun to scab over. It was an ugly rusting brown colour, and she felt a curious urge to pick it off, but knew better.  
She had never looked this terrible in her life. What use was her turning up at the King's court if nobody recognised her? She had little to no experience of scars and wounds- would her face be healed by the time they reached the city? Would she even reach the city?

With a heavy sigh she began to wash yesterdays dirt from her face, careful to avoid causing her features any more damage. She quickly fixed her hair, and reached down to straighten her skirts, only to remember there were none- just the comfortable men's clothes that Octavia had left her. But now that her head was not muddled by exhaustion and fear, she realised they were not men's clothes at all.  
The plain white shirt was cut in such away that it did not strain across her breast, nor hang awkwardly loose at the waist. The breeches too, fit snugly against her hips, curving in at the waist. These were always meant to be worn by a woman. The thought was an odd one.

Without delaying the inevitable any further, she stepped out of the cabin. The sky had turned a rich purple, dawn bleeding red and pinks into the heavens. The full moon still hung low in the sky. She spotted Octavia's silhouette by the horses and walked there. Is she had to pick an ally amongst these enemies, she'd take her chances with her.  
She walked towards them, and Octavia gave her a curt nod. She was not alone, four other men stood around them. Clarke stood beside them, shivering in the early morning cold. Red sky at night shepherds delight, red sky at morning, shepherd's warning...

Bellamy walked towards them, carrying several saddle bags over his shoulder. He threw them to the ground, and the other men picked them up and began fastening them to the horses. Clarke recognised two of them- Jasper, the kind faced boy who said too much, and Murphy with anger in his eyes and venom in his voice. Clarke knew men like him. Men who joined the Ark Guard, not out of a sense of honour or duty, but out of the prospect of blood.  
Clare hoped the blood he craved wasn't her's.

Bellamy cleared his throat in an effort to gather their attention. It worked.  
"Gentlemen... and ladies," He said with a wink at her. Clarke rolled her eyes. "We still have one order of business to attend to before we head out." He clapped his hands once, and Clarke gave a sharp gasp as two scruffy boys dragged out a very beaten Kane. He had a large swollen black eye, a split lip and his leg stuck out at an odd angle. Clarke fought the urge to look away.

"What do we do with him?" Bellamy said, folding his arms and looking at Kane the way you'd look at a stray dog. Keep him or kill him?  
"We kill him." Murphy said with a shrug. "Any other way ends with him running back to his Lord and us being killed." He unsheathed an old-looking sword and aimed it at Kane's throat. Clarke stared at him aghast.  
"You don't get to decide who lives and dies," Clarke said appalled, "Only God has that right."  
Bellamy turned his eyes to the heavens.  
"Well Princess, God couldn't be here on such short notice, so we'll have to do. He's in no position to come with us, unfortunately," Bellamy said, his voice anything but remorseful, "Now, if you can think of a better alternative to killing him, please share."  
Clarke thought for a moment.

"Keep him here, until his wounds are healed, then send him back to Ark. Let him make up some excuse for his absence. He knows that if he does something that would compromise this... noble quest, you would kill me. If you were to kill him, my mother would grow suspicious. The best knight in the country killed by a gang of common theives and bandits? It wouldn't make sense." She said calmly, proud of how sound her plan was. Of course none of it was true. Kane was by no means the best knight in the Kingdom, he was slow, old and fought with an honour that won you respect but not the fight. How he had survived the battle yesterday was beyond her. Her mother would not be surprised in the least if he had fallen.  
But they didn't need to know that.

Bellamy nodded thoughtfully, his brow furrowed in concentration as he weighed his options. He seemed to reach a conclusion.  
"Those in favour of killing him say 'aye'!" He shouted. Only two voices answered, Murphy and another tall man, who stood beside Bellamy. His second, Clarke thought.  
"Those in favour of letting him live out of the mercy of our hearts?" He said, a twinge of humour in his voice. Octavia, Jasper, another boy and Bellamy all raised their hands and cheered "Aye". Clarke let out the breath she was holding and she saw Kane's shoulders slump in relief. Bellamy nodded at the two boys struggling with Kane's weight, and they started dragging him away again. Clarke expected there to be retaliation from Murphy, but he just shrugged his shoulders and mounted his horse. The other followed suit.

Jasper led her own horse, Exodus, towards her, and helped her mount. She smiled at him in gratitude, and he blushed. The other boy hit him across the back of the head with a laugh. Once they were all ready, Clarke left on her journey to the city once more.

Not blindfolded this time, Clarke was able to appreciate the beauty of the woods and marshland that they travelled through. The City road ran through farmland and fields of corn. For obvious reasons, Bellamy wanted to keep off the road, and led them through the Ground Forest. The trees were huge and their swooping branches created a ceiling of leaves and bracken over their head. Clarke could imagine how beautiful this track must be during the summer, how the ceiling of nature would turn the June sunlight green, and how one would never be alone with birdsong and the sound of woodland creatures living their short lives to the fullest. Of course now, the ground was covered with a rainbow of brown and yellow leaves, and the only sound accompanying them was the sound of horses' hooves and the occasional cry of a crow. Her fingers were already numb with the icy cold. This winter would be a harsh one.

She had slowly found out the names of their company, though only Jasper had introduced himself, shortly after they had begun their journey. Miller was the tall man who had voted for Kane's death He was named after his father's profession, and Clarke had assumed correct in that he was Bellamy's second. Bellamy had consulted him three times on the journey already; on what path, where they would camp, and would it be worth their time stopping at an inn that they'd pass in three day's time. Clarke didn't know if it was because Bellamy was unsure of himself or if he valued another person's opinion. She decided on the latter, despite how strange it seemed. Wanting a second opinion on decisions would imply that he was a wise leader, which was a bizarre concept , but on the other hand, Bellamy being unsure of himself was an impossibility.

Monty was the other boy, who stuck to jasper like he was a limb. Clarke had only known them for less than a day, and she already thought of them as one person. He and Jasper had been charged with "Disturbing the peace and breaking curfew" which had earned them a life sentence, Jasper told her. Shortly after they escaped they joined Bellamy's group. They considered each other brothers.  
Octavia didn't need to tell Clarke her story and past, Clarke could see it for herself. She was Bellamy's younger sister, and followed him wherever he led without question. Despite the circumstances, Clarke envied her. She had no one she could trust like that.

Morning turned to afternoon, which then turned to evening. The sky was like fire, and Clarke felt that her fingers were about to fall off with cold. Her back was stiff and sore with riding, and her ankle throbbed steadily the whole day through. She was thoroughly miserable. She heard someone riding beside her, but didn't bother turning to look. What was the point? All she'd get was a jab about being privileged and would be called princess no doubt, since everybody had taken to calling her that.  
She heard something fly through the air, and land on her lap gently. She stirred her self and found a pair of gloves, already slipping off her thighs. She grabbed them quickly, prying her hands from the reins, and slid them over her chilled fingers. They were still warm, someone had been wearing them only seconds before, and were far too big for her. She didn't care, and let out a slight sigh of pleasure as she felt the relief. She heard a soft laugh beside her and turned to see Bellamy looking at her bemused.

"It's funny how the smallest things are so cherished when you have nothing Princess, isn't it?"  
"Everything is waiting for me in the city." She said haughtily and then turned her head, to meet his laughing eyes.  
"Thank you for the gloves."  
If he was shocked at her acknowledgment he didn't show it, just gave her a small nod. They rode in silence for several more minutes, and then Clarke felt the need to break it for an unknown reason.  
"I would have survived without them, you know. It would take more that cold hands to break a Griffin."

Her words did not have the desired effect, as he let out another round of laughter. Why was everything she did so funny to him?  
"You nobles, are all the same thinking that your name has anything to do with your spirit. Your family name has nothing to do with who you are, as all of us here have proven many times. Being a Griffin does not make you inherently strong, nor will becoming a Jaha make you powerful. You are in control of your own destiny, not your family line, and whatever strengths and weaknesses you have are your own not your blood's."  
He sounded as though he were not speaking about her anymore, as if he were trying to convince himself of something. He shook the dark expression from his face and turned to her speaking lightly.  
"It would be in your best interest to be quiet until we leave these woods Princess. Bandit's are not the only thing to fear, here." He urged his horse into a trot and rode ahead, leaving Clarke alone with her own thoughts.

Clarke noticed as they rode into the night, that she was never left to ride on her own. There was always someone a few paces away from her. For protection or for prevention of her escape, she did not know.  
Her eyes blinked blearily, as she struggled to keep herself upright in the saddle. Her now warm hands, gave her just enough comfort to feel that she could sleep. She saw the flame of a torch out of the corner of her eye and sighed. The watchman, come to greet them into the Castle walls...

She leapt up, suddenly awake. They were in the middle of the forest, there was no watchman, there should be no torch. She searched wildly for an explanation, and saw that Bellamy and Miller were on high alert too. Bellamy held up a hand, stopping the company, and they all turned their heads, eyes wide with fear and something else... determination?  
After a short period of nothing but their panting breaths, a wild howl pierced the air. An animal?, Clarke mused, but the sound was followed by a hundred torches charging them.  
"Grounders!" Someone yelled, and suddenly they all broke into a gallop, turning off the woodland path, and into the trees. Clarke wasn't sure what they were running from until an arrow, flew by her head, and for the second time in two days, she felt fear of death spreading through her body.

The horses screamed in protest. Clarke's ankle burned with every movement. She couldn't feel it though, she couldn't feel anything over the fear for her life. These grounders, whatever the hell they were, scared Bellamy enough to make him run, so for Clarke it meant death was imminent. She had never ridden this fast in her life- she'd never had any cause to.  
After what seemed like a lifetime and yet a breath at the same time, Clarke noticed that Bellamy seemed to be leading them somewhere- or, at least, he wasn't turning just to avoid trees anymore. The war cries hadn't disappeared, but they were fainter somehow. Quietly at first, but steadily growing louder, she heard the sound of running water, and then it came into view- a wide river emerged from the darkness, reflecting the moon and stars in it's abyss.

Exodus stopped, suddenly refusing to enter the icy water. She started to urge him on until she realised everyone else was dismounting. Murphy was already waist deep in the river. Clarke's heart sank. They were going to swim across the goddamn river. She was trapped.  
"Time to go, princess." Bellamy said roughly, arms extended, trying to help her down. He must of thought her delay was because she couldn't dismount the horse by herself. She quickly corrected him as she dropped herself from the saddle.

"I can't swim."  
"Of course you bloody can't," He said, exasperated, "What are you ladies taught exactly?"  
She was about to answer, when he turned on his heel, his back facing her. He had bent down slightly, and she knew what he expected her to do before he said it.  
"Climb on, princess, don't have all night here."  
Despite the situation, Clarke hesitated. She thought she could practically hear him roll his eyes.

"Clarke, it's either this, or you take your chances with the grounders. Frankly, rather you than me."

With a resigned sigh, she wrapped her arms around his neck, and he pulled her up, putting his arms under her thighs. He stood up, shifted her weight on his back for a moment, before running into the water.  
Clarke bit her tongue when the scream of pain tried to escape her lips. The frozen water stabbed at her skin like a thousand knives, though it was oddly soothing on her ankle. The water was beyond icy- She couldn't understand why it wasn't frozen over. Bellamy was shivering as well, swearing under his breath. They moved slowly, Bellamy was struggling with the extra weight. A few times, Clarke felt herself slipping, and felt Bellamy stumble, but he always steadied himself and started wading, neck deep in the murky waters. Just when Clarke began to think they were out of danger, a cry of anger pierced the air from behind them- the grounders had caught up. Clarke could make out the figure of the others on the opposite riverbank. A voice she recognised as Jasper's was cheering them on.

The cries grew lounder and stronger as more of the grounders pooled at the bank. Bellamy let out a huff of frustration.  
"Here's where the fun begins."  
No sooner had the words left his mouth did arrows start piercing the water around them. Clarke let out a fresh cry as water droplets struck her in previously dry places.  
"Bellamy, they'll hit us," She said furtively, "Let me down, I can make it from here." He only held tighter.  
"You'll be taken away by the current and drown, I'll have a hard time getting a reward for returning a soaking dead princess. Just turn your head and keep an eye out for any worryingly close arrows."  
She did just that and it worked for a while. Finally they reached the riverbank, and she climbed off Bellamy's back, rolling on to the sand. Monty and Jasper pulled her to her feet, while Miller helped up Bellamy.

"For awhile there, I was sure you weren't going to make it, mate. I'm surprised no arrows hit you."  
Without warning, Clarke felt herself being pushed to the ground. She landed on her back, and was able to witness everything. She knew what she saw. An arrow came flying from the other side of the river, and for a brief moment even Bellamy looked impressed by the skill of the archer. It whizzed passed where she had been standing mere seconds before, Bellamy let out a sharp cry of pain, and the arrow impaled itself into the trunk of nearby tree. Jasper looked at it in wonder, tearing at the piece of Bellamy's leather jacket the arrow had taken with it. Bellamy shot Miller an exasperated look.

"You had to say something."

They all laughed in relief, except for Clarke, who was staring up at them from the ground. Bellamy had just saved her life. Not only that, but had put his life before hers. She had known the man all but two days, and she was already indebted to him. Girls had fallen in love with men for less.

He stretched out a hand, and she took it, allowing him to pull her up. She looked at the rip in his coat suspiciously.  
"Are you injured?" She asked, reaching to see if she could find the wound that was undoubtedly there. Bellamy brushed her off.  
"'Tis but a scratch. Come on, we need to find somewhere to rest and dry off. The grounders won't follow us here, we're out of their territory. Where's Octavia?" He said glancing around. It was then everyone realized they hadn't seen her since before the river. Bellamy went from questioning to furious within seconds.  
"Where's Octavia!" He yelled, the tone of his voice causing Clarke to flinch. This was a new side to him, the one she realised had won him respect. The side that inspired fear, not courage.

"Octavia!" He yelled again, looking as if he was about to combust. There was a rustling in the bushes, and everyone turned to face the intruder.  
"Relax Bell, I'm here. No need to murder just yet." Octavia said as she approached them, leading her horse behind her. She gave Bellamy a wary smile, obviously not sure if he was going to hug her or scream at her. He did neither, simply stared at her in confusion.  
"Your clothes aren't wet." He stated, everybody turning to inspect Octavia. Indeed they weren't, she obviously hadn't entered the river. She licked her lips nervously.  
"I got separated in the escape. Butterfly spooked, and I couldn't find you again. I crossed at a shallower part, about a mile away."

Bellamy seemed to accept her excuse, and after telling her to stay close in the future, and mumbling about getting her a braver horse with the reward money, they were on their way again.  
Clarke, however, wasn't so convinced. She knew a carefully rehearsed lie when she heard one. She'd told them enough herself. She decided not to say anything, it wasn't her business. Instead she limped beside Octavia, wringing out her hair as she went.  
"Butterfly?" She asked with a laugh. Octavia blushed.  
"I named him when I was thirteen years old, you mustn't judge. We can't all have magnificent thoroughbred stallions like Exodus." She said with a smile, but all it did was remind Clarke that she didn't even have her horse anymore. Her one link with home was gone.

Bellamy only kept them walking for another half hour, before he and Miller started building a fire. With only one remaining saddlebag of left, he sent Jasper and Monty out hunting, hoping to smoke some food before they left in the morning. Octavia had pulled some spare clothes out of her saddle bag, and Clarke had taken them gratefully. If there was good thing about the Princess, Bellamy thought to himself, it was that she wasn't proud, despite the nickname. Oh, she was as stubborn as a mule, and already he'd noticed this infuriating need to help everyone she had, but she was able to admit when she needed help. She was the worst kind of girl, Bellamy thought as he rung out his shirt, She was smart.

He gingerly poked at the fresh scar that stretched across his side. It was about two thumbs long, and only as wide as the arrow's head. It still hurt like a bitch. He poured as much of Monty's moonshine he could handle on it and then some, before bandaging it up. It could probably have done with stitches, but there was no time. He pulled his now only slightly damp shirt over his head, wincing as he pulled on the wound. This was getting old, fast. He refused to let himself think about why he had the injury in the first place. Bloody Princess, of course his one chance at a better life for him and O would be in the direct line of fire. If he told himself that often enough, he might have begun to believe it.  
Suddenly he felt himself being shoved, and turned to face Murphy, looking at him murderously.

"What do you want Murphy?" Bellamy said tiredly. He was really not in the mood to deal with Murphy's anger issues right now. He trusted Murphy, perhaps not in the same way he trusted Miller or Jasper, but he trusted him all the same. However the man could not leave well enough alone.  
"Why the hell did you save the princess? You could have been killed Bellamy!" He spat. Bellamy laughed in relief.

"Is that what this is about? Lord, Murphy, I didn't know you cared." he teased, hoping Murphy would run out of steam, before he was forced to shut him up.  
"The 100 would turn on each other within hours of you dying Bellamy. They won't listen to me because I'm a murderer, they won't listen to Miller because he's just that. I don't need to tell you why they won't follow Jasper or Monty. I won't let you throw our people into anarchy, just because you fancy some noble family's brood mare!"

Bellamy froze. He half smiled as he noticed Murphy's eyes flicker with fear.  
"It's not like that Murphy, she's just cargo. Very special cargo, perhaps very pretty cargo, but cargo all the same. Cargo we have to deliver to the city unharmed. That was why I saved the princess. And anyway," he said, shaking out his jacket, flicking water onto Murphy's face, accidentally of course, "We both know, she's not my type." Bellamy couldn't remember the last time he'd seen a girl with blonde hair, let alone been with one. Murphy gave him a wicked grin.  
"Yeah, well maybe it's just your Blake blood wanting a taste of it's own kind." He muttered, venom filling his voice.

Bellamy gave an exasperated sigh, before pinning Murphy against a tree, knife pressed against his throat. A thin line of blood tricked down his neck.  
"Now John," Bellamy spoke slowly, enunciating each word, "never refer to me by that name again, or I'm going to have to kill you." He released him roughly, sending him flying to the floor.

"Am I being clear?"  
Murphy nodded several times, holding his hands to his own throat.  
"Perfectly."

Bellamy nodded at him, and Murphy ran back to the fire. Bellamy winced as he pressed a hand to his side, letting out a grunt of relief at the pressure. He was sure that this wound was hurting more than it was supposed to. He struggled back to camp and lay between Octavia and Miller. He fell asleep planning how they were going to get to the city in less than a week with only one horse, a girl with a twisted ankle and one skinny rabbit to keep them going.

There was something moving beside her. With a shaking hand, Clarke reached out and grabbed the rock she had hid beside her and was about to hit whatever was moving, only to realise it was Octavia. She was rummaging about in her leather saddlebag, pulling out rags and a small vial. She turned seeing that she had woken Clarke up. Octavia debated for a moment before beckoning for her to follow. Clarke rose, curious, and followed her, into a small clearing where there was a second fire, smaller and newer looking than the one she had woken up beside. Then she noticed a shaking figure lying beside it, and let out a gasp realising it was Bellamy.

Octavia was shaking too.

"I woke up, and he was shaking like this. He's so feverish, I think he must have the sweat. I dragged him here, I don't know if it's already spread to the others." She said nervously, tears threatening to spill from her eyes. Clarke patted her arm reassuringly, before kneeling down beside him. Octavia was right, he was burning like the summer sun, but there was no delirious mumbling that always accompanied the sweat. If it weren't for his violent shaking and this slight foam coming from his mouth, Clarke would have thought he was simply too warm. A sense of dread filled Clarke's heart. She pulled up his shirt and took out the knife from his sleeve. She began to cut away at the bandage tied around his middle, and Bellamy gave a muffled roar of pain, as she peeled away the bandage from the affect area. She let out a groan as her suspicions were confirmed.

What might have started as "but a scratch" was now festering, green juices pooling around the edges. Clarke retched at the smell.  
"This isn't the sweat." She said alarmed. "This isn't even infection, this..." her mouth went dry, as she gave Octavia a worried look.  
"This is poison."

Octavia let out a strangled cry, falling to her knees beside her brother. She pulled his head onto her lap, stroking his hair. She looked up at Clarke wildly.  
"Do something. Anything, you're the only one here who's educated!" she gasped in between sobs. Clarke almost laughed.  
"I'm educated in singing and dancing and playing the lyre, not in curing a poisoned wound!" She half yelled, trying not to wake anyone up. The last thing she needed was a panic and a power struggle. She stood up and began dipping the rags into the water Octavia had helpfully boiled.

"Are grounders known for poisoning their arrows?" she asked, as she began to dab at the wound with the boiling water, not knowing if she was making it better or worse. Bellamy cried at every touch. Octavia shook her head, wiping her eyes.

"No. No, this has never happened before, though, Lincoln was very anxious for me to avoid..." She trailed off into silence as she realised she had said too much. Clarke raised an eyebrow.  
"Who's Lincoln?"

Octavia took a deep breath.  
"He's a grounder. We've... we've been courting for about a month now, Bellamy mustn't know, he'll kill him. Please don't tell him!" Octavia pleaded, taking Clarke's hand in her own. Clarke squeezed her hand back.  
"Octavia if you don't find Lincoln and bring him here now, neither of us will ever be able to tell your brother anything again. Maybe he'll be able to help."

Octavia nodded, as she grabbed her cloak and left, probably to mount Butterfly. She turned at the last minute, looking Clarke straight in the eye.  
"I heard Murphy and Miller talking earlier. They said the arrow was meant for you, but Bell pushed you out of the way. It should be you dying. Save his life or I swear to God I'll kill you. " Her voice broke on the last few words and she ran.

Clarke continued to clean the wound, and wiped away the fluid Bellamy kept coughing up, trying to pretend that Octavia's words hadn't affected her. Even if Octavia was bluffing, Clarke would still die if Bellamy did. Who would protect her? Who would get her safely to the city? She didn't know the way, she had no survival skills and Murphy wanted her dead from the start, she could see it in his face, hear it in his voice. And she knew in her heart that Bellamy wanted something more from the king than just treasure. This quest meant more to him than the others, it was why he was so determined. Determined enough to take an arrow for her. Without him they'd take her back to their village, or worse.

Bellamy's eyes flew open for a minute, and Clarke felt sure that he was awake, if only for a couple of seconds.  
"I know I'm in no position to ask favours," Clarke said quickly, taking his sweaty palm between her hands, "But please don't die."

"I'll try, princess." He muttered, before he began to cough up blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so glad so many of you enjoyed the first chapter! Your comments were so nice, and since I have the first few chapters written, here's the next chapter- hope you enjoy!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Operation "Save Bellamy" and some drunken heart-to-hearts

Everything seems more intense at night. With only the flickering light of the fire to help her see, shadows and smoke blurred her thoughts. It is so much easier to pretend someone is going to survive, when there is daylight. But it wasn't day, the stars were out, the fire burned, and Clarke felt sure Bellamy was going to die.  
Every time he retched, coughed and choked, Clarke reached for his hand, wanting to make sure his last moments weren't spent alone. No one deserved that. But he'd always pull back from the brink, muttering, moaning, shivering in the cold night air. Clarke found herself far to close to him than was proper, just for the extra warmth. She could see his eyes rolling behind his eyelids. All she could hear was his ragged breathing. She could count every freckle that dusted across his face. It was always the beautiful ones who die tragically she thought to herself, before quickly running the thought out of her head.

Bellamy had endured his third fit, when Clarke heard the rustling of feet approaching them. She gripped Bellamy's dagger in her cold hands, praying that nothing would attack them- the Princess and unconscious rebel would be sitting ducks.  
Octavia and who Clarke assumed to be Lincoln emerged from the dense trees.  
Lincoln was an imposing man, towering over Octavia. His huge shoulders were covered in different matted furs, and he had strange markings down his neck. He hadn't even spoken yet, and Clarke was already terrified of him.  
He watched her with careful eyes, before kneeling beside Bellamy. He seemed to be examining him, staring and poking at the poisoned wound. He turned to look at Octavia, and shook his head gently. Octavia paled, but remained resolute.  
"You told me you would save him." She whispered.  
"I told you I would try, I cannot. I am sorry for your brother and his wife, Octavia, but nothing can be done." He said, stony faced. Clarke tried not be affected by his mistake. If thinking she was Bellamy's wife would stir him into remorse, she'd let him. Octavia refused to back down.  
"There must be an antidote!" She said fiercely, somehow managing to stare Lincoln down, despite the height difference. Lincoln put his hands on her shoulders gently.

"My love, there isn't." He said, pulling Octavia to his chest, when she let out a sob.  
Clarke looked at him, her eyes narrowing. He met her gaze over Octavia's shoulder, before his eyes flitted away nervously.  
"You're lying." She said, her voice sounding as cold as she felt. Octavia stepped back, and returned Lincoln's guilt-ridden gaze with accusing eyes. Finally he groaned, wiping sweat off his brow with the back of his hand.  
"Octavia, I cannot give him the cure! My people know he was hit, if he miraculously recovered, they'd know someone betrayed them. I, we," He said, gesturing between them, "cannot afford that."

"He's all I have," trembled Octavia, "Does that mean nothing?"  
Lincoln stepped towards her, taking her hands in his own.  
"You have me!" He urged, allowing a smile to slip onto his features. It disappeared when Octavia scoffed.  
"Yes, I have you, perhaps once a month, when you can slip away. What would happen if Bellamy died? Would you take me to become your Grounder princess? Would the commander give her blessing and accept me with open arms? What fairytale are you living? He's my one constant. Don't take him away from me!"

Lincoln's inner turmoil showed on his face. He fought with his options, with his guilt, and he knew now that if Bellamy died, Octavia would never forgive him. That was what seemed to push him over the edge in the end.  
With a cry that sounded as if her were in pain, he pushed a small vial into Clarke's hands, and then turned to leave. He and Octavia stared at each other for a moment, and then he ran, disappearing in the trees almost immediately.

Clarke wasted no time, and removed the cap from the vial. The liquid inside both smelled and looked dreadful, and a small voice inside her head whispered if this was actually the cure, or a poison guaranteed to kill Bellamy. Clarke shrugged inwardly. Whatever happened, the vial could not possibly make him worse- perhaps death was merciful.  
Not knowing how to administrate the liquid, she poured it down his throat and into the wound itself for good measure. Octavia handed her a small needle and thread, and Clarke pretended this his skin was another countless banner she had to stitch. They sat back and waited for something to change.

It did not take long. His rasping breaths stopped, his eyes rolled into the back of his head, and he was still. For a moment the world seemed to freeze, the air around them stilled as they stared in horror at his unmoving body. Then, finally, he gasped loudly, taking several deep breathes before settling into sleep. Seconds later, fresh sweat dripped from his forehead, and Clarke sighed in relief knowing his fever had broken at last. Octavia collapsed to her knees, and whispered prayers of thanks, and the way her words stumbled, suggested she didn't pray often. After several moments, Octavia knelt beside her, and they started to keep vigil over him, hoping he'd be awake before the others.

The night was long. After Bellamy's fever died down, Clarke suddenly realised how cold she was, pulling the cloak closer around her shoulders. Octavia was the first to succumb to her tiredness. Clarke returned to the clearing after leaving for more firewood, to find her leaning against a tree, her face serene in sleep. Clarke decided not to wake her, continuing the night's watch alone. After a while she began to turn to different methods of keeping herself awake. She counted the trees surrounding them, the number of fading stars she could see in the sky, she counted the number of flames that cracked in the fire. When she found herself counting the number of freckles on Bellamy's face, she shook herself, but couldn't bring herself to look away. The Rebel king was infuriating, uncompassionate and unfeeling, but ugly he unfortunately wasn't. Thinking about it, she realised all of her company were fair of face in one way or another, though that though lead her to thinking why they didn't affect her in the way Bellamy did. As she thought of different excuses to explain herself, she didn't notice her eyes dropping, her shoulders slumping, and sleep finally taking over her body. She later wondered if this was simply to stop herself thinking about him any longer.

When she woke up, her first though was how stiff she was. She ached absolutely everywhere, but her neck screamed for attention the loudest. She groaned loudly as she pushed herself up with her hands, and jumped when the ground gave a huff of pain. She slowly opened her eyes, and they found another pair staring back at her, dancing with amusement.  
"Good morrow, princess." Bellamy said, his voice gruff with sleep. He was pale, dirty and very alive. Despite the fact that she had woken up slumped across him, she felt a wave of relief rush though her, and if it were anybody else, she might have embraced him.

"Bellamy, thank god. How are you feeling?" She said, pushing her hair behind her ears. She ignored the way it felt, (as if a bird had made a nest in it over night), and focused on him, checking for fresh blood, fever, anything.  
"Confused. I'm feeling confused. What happened?"  
"Your wound was poisoned. For awhile it seemed like you were going to die, but I recognised the poison from my studies, and was able to cure it." She and Octavia had decided on the lie during the night. It seemed more believable than Bellamy simply sweating the poison out, and it left Lincoln out of the story entirely. All they had to do was hope no one got hit with another Grounder arrow, though Octavia assured her that it wouldn't happen again. They were out of Grounder territory, and they no longer had any cause to attack.

Bellamy stared at her, his brow raised so far it seemed to disappear into his hairline.  
"You healed me?"  
"I did."  
"You treated my wounds, wiped my brow and stood vigil at my deathbed? I'm touched."  
"It's what us fair maidens are for, is it not?" Clarke answered dryly, as she changed the bandages over the wound. The green had receded completely and Clarke was satisfied to allow all treatment of it back to Bellamy.  
"I know little about scarring, but I'm afraid you may carry that one for the rest of your life."

Bellamy scoffed.  
"I've had worse."  
"No doubt of it" Clarke muttered under her breath as she dressed the wound. He watched her as she worked, and seemed taken aback by the neat row of stitches on his skin.  
"You stitched me up quite literally- Lady Clarke you were born to be a surgeon!"  
"I was born to be a Lady." She answered, finishing the last knot in the bandage. Her hand lingered on his chest for a moment, and she felt a scarlet blush rising up her neck. She coughed loudly, wiping her hands on her thighs for good measure. She poured the now cold water over the smoldering fire, speaking to him without meeting his gaze. She knew it was rude, but it made things easier.

"Can you walk?"  
"I can try." He groaned, as he pushed himself up off the ground. His already white face paled with the effort, and he clutched at his side instinctively. Clarke was over in a moment, before he could collapse to the ground. He leant on her, shooting her a grateful smile, as she walked him over to a tree to lean on. He threw his weight against it, both hands pressing in on the wound, his features pulled into a tight grimace. Clarke watched him worriedly.  
"Perhaps you should ride Butterfly for the rest of our journey." She suggested, biting back a laugh at his horrified expression.

"Ride Octavia's mule? I feel that you are trying to think of different ways to make me your fool." He said. He seemed surprised when Clarke laughed.  
"Yes Bellamy, it's the only way I keep going. The Rebel Fool does have a good ring to it. Perhaps that will be your reward- a permanent place in the king's court."  
Bellamy gave a low chuckle at that, wincing as he pulled on his stiches. Clarke ignored the blush that was always creeping its way up to her cheeks.  
"Come on, we'd best find some sort of arrangement. I say we have the bones of a week left before Jaha sends out men to search for me." She said with a sigh, walking past him and his tree. She gave a gasp of surprise when his rough hand grabbed hers pulling her stumbling to stand in front of him.

He kept her hand clasped in his own, and Clarke was struck by the stark difference in their colouring. She pondered absent-mindedly if their appearances were a metaphor for something unknown- the Light and the Dark.  
He seemed hesitant of something. They were close enough that the misty swirls of their breath mingled together. After a moment of deliberation he raised her hand to his mouth, and brushed a kiss against her cold knuckles- without comment, irony or design.  
"I'm alive because of you. Thank you." He said softly, his brown eyes warm.  
"I saved your life," Clarke whispered, pointing at where his new scar lay, "you just ensure you never have to save mine." She said, before brushing past him, ignoring how her fingers burned from his touch, despite the early morning frost. She felt his eyes searing into the back of her head, and she knew she was in real danger of a different kind.

After much argument, and threats of many different descriptions from Octavia and Miller, Bellamy mounted Butterfly, and they set out on their journey. once more. Bellamy fed the group the same lie Octavia and Clarke had fed him. Clarke had felt sure that they would blame her for endangering Bellamy in the first place, but they only registered that she had saved their King. The result was a timid quietness, furtive glances, and a surprising lack of name-calling, that Clarke took to be their respect.  
The last thing spoken to her was Jasper's cheerful "We'll be at the Two-Faced Deer by nightfall!", before Monty gave him a very clear "hush" look. Clarke had perhaps won their respect but not their trust and found she could live with that. She imagined that the 'Two-Faced Deer' was the inn Bellamy had mentioned the day before. The mere thought of a bed and warm broth was enough to give Clarke a new energy she didn't know she possessed. Bellamy was right- it was funny how cherished the smallest things were, now that she had nothing. She still wore his too-big gloves- mostly because of the cold, but also because every time she glanced at her hand she was met with the memory of how his lips had brushed against them so sweetly. It was irritating beyond belief- here she was all but engaged, distracted by a handsome face and a dashing manner. She was no better than the ladies she used to ridicule at court. The thought made her sick to her stomach.

She made a decision there and then to not think about any boy, noble or rebel, until she absolutely had to. There were very few useful things one could learn at court, but the art of concealing how you were truly feeling was a skill she held dear to her heart. She had mastered it when she was nine years old. She buried her tiredness, her fiancé, and the chaste kiss in the garden of her mind and instead focused on the dulling pain of her ankle, the icy tip of her nose and the seemingly endless road between her and her future.

I thought trees were beautiful once, Clarke thought vaguely. Now, she felt that if she didn't leave his forest soon, she would have to kill the man that brought her into it.  
Jasper had been a little off in his hopeful estimation that they would reach the Inn by nightfall- this was their second day of trampling through endless woodland, nothing but each other's tired breaths, stumbling footsteps and Jasper's off-key humming to entertain them. She had tried to keep herself occupied by worrying about Bellamy, but he seemed to take his new battle scar in his stride. He refused to ride Butterfly for a second day, and now only slightly limped. She imagined the stitches would have to come out soon, but that was beyond her realm of knowledge. She had voiced her concerns to Octavia, who had become much less frosty after Bellamy's recovery, but she had brushed her off saying that Miller was more than experienced in surgery. After a few moments of silence she apologised to Clarke over her previous threat, and had made an offer of friendship which Clarke readily accepted. God knows, she needed a friend. Clarke thought back on the conversation as they trudged through the foliage of the forest.  
"If women are to become anything in this world, we must have each others backs. If not we are simply allowing the enemy to win." Octavia had said, with the air of a wise sage. Clarke laughed.  
"And who is the enemy?" Clarke asked, light-hearted.  
"Men." Octavia said simply, with laughter and mischief in her eyes. They had laughed together, and Clarke couldn't help but wonder how Bellamy hoped to keep her at his side forever. Octavia was not a girl who would be satisfied to stay in her brother's house for all her life, though Clarke envied her that option. Octavia would never be forced into any marriage. Lincoln was not mentioned by Octavia or Clarke, and both parties seemed satisfied to leave it that way. The less Clarke knew, the less she could reveal. Clarke's reverie was interrupted by the sound of jubilant shouting and the distant sounds of laughter and song. Through the darkness, she could make out a hazy merry light, and then the blurry edges of a building. As they approached, Clarke decided that this must be the long awaited Two-Faced Deer.

Their path turned from trampled leaves, to hardened dirt, which then turned to soft muck. It smelled like the most horrid mixture of cowpat and strong ale. The ruckus inside sounded almost violent. As they walked they passed two men laughing as they dunked a third man into a water trough repeatedly. Murphy pushed them to the ground as he tied Butterfly to the trough. They seemed angry, but fell silent once they saw the heavy broadsword at his hip, and mocked curtsies as Clarke and Octavia passed them. A wooden sign swung overhead, with a crudely painted deer on both sides. A second set of bloody-looking features hung on the side of the deer's head and Clarke hoped that the name of the inn was inspired by myth not truth.

Bellamy pushed open the rough door, and they were met with a welcoming cheer. He seemed famous in this place, beloved even. Arms came from nowhere, patting him on the back, unseen men shouted promises to buy him a drink- and Octavia if he would let them. Clarke felt herself shoved and pushed in all directions, bumping into someone else, as she tried to dodge the body before. She had never heard herself speak so many apologies.  
Finally they were seated, and the relief of that hard, wooden bench was indescribable. Clarke had never tasted anything as delicious as the watery broth they were served, nor anything as delectable as the questionable looking meat that went with it. Anytime her tongue began to protest at the taste, she swallowed another mouthful of ale, and it was quietened. Soon her stomach was full, her head was heavy and she felt something akin to happiness for the first time in months. She heard Octavia say over the din that the first leg of their journey was over, and that they would be traveling on a better road from here on out. Clarke couldn't describe the emotion she was feeling but, it reminded her of the time she had climbed the Great Hill with her father and his company when she was a child... Accomplishment. That was the feeling. Accomplishment and comradery with the men around her. She found herself laughing at Murphy's jokes, singing along with Monty and Jasper's drunken song, once the chorus became familiar to her. Was she drunk? Perhaps, but really she just felt... at peace. Nobody knew who she was here, nobody expected her to behave. To them she was a nobody, a miller's daughter, a harlot, Bellamy's latest conquest perhaps. The only reason they stared was because of the golden shine of her hair.

She found that the others had left their table in pursuit of more music, and the possibility of dancing, and that she was left alone with Bellamy. He had that expression of bemusement in his eyes again. Why did he look at her so? What did he find so amusing about her? It took her another moment to register that he was speaking to her.

"What are you thinking, Princess?" He asked, leaning forward, resting his elbows on the table. Clarke shrugged.  
"I am thinking about you." She said blindly, then inwardly stabbing herself the second the words left her lips. He seemed surprised at her frankness before answering.  
"What about me?"  
"I am wondering," Clarke bluffed, "How one becomes King of the Rebels." Bellamy laughed, and Clarke breathed out in relief.  
"Fancy a career change, Lady Clarke?"  
She rolled her eyes, ignoring the way her name sounded on his tongue. Dear lord, she must be drunk.

"I tell you what, m'lady, I'll tell you my tragic story, if you tell me yours."  
"Mine?" Clarke uttered, blinking in surprise. He nodded, taking a swing of ale.  
"Indeed. I too have been thinking about you Lady Clarke, and I have been wondering how, pardon me, a lady as stubborn arsed as your good self, gets embroiled in something as ridiculous as an arranged marriage. A cruel father?" He asked, frowning when Clarke shook her head.  
"No, my father was the kindest of men."  
"A sense of duty then? A thirst for adventure? An escape?" He grew more and more frustrated with each shake of her head.  
"A broken heart?" He asked and whooped triumphantly when something flickered in her eyes. She cursed herself again for her fatal flaw- she could lie well, but could never hide an emotion.  
"Come now princess we have a deal- aren't a coward are you? Tell me about this young vagabond who stole your heart away."  
Clarke sighed.

"It matters not, really. His name was Finn, we courted throughout the summer. There were prettier girls at the court, happier girls, wittier girls, yet he chose me. I was flattered, happy for once, but like all good things, it ended. He left to return to his fiance," Bellamy raised an eyebrow in surprise, "and I left for Wells, my future husband. Nothing more."  
Bellamy gave her a sad smile.  
"Don't you think the fact that you're a rich lady had something to do with noble Finn's interest in you?" He asked, his tone pitiful. Clarke scoffed.  
"Bellamy of you think I am wealthy, you are vastly mistaken. My engagement to Well is because of my family name, not my non-existent riches."  
Bellamy looked curious.  
"Thank God, you are important, Princess. If we had discovered you were a nobody and penniless, we would have been forced to kill you. Care to explain how you came to be a pauper Lady?"  
"Care to explain how you became the Rebel King?" She retorted. He blanched.  
"Touche. But your woeful tale does not equal mine in it's...woefullness." His tongue stumbled over the word. Clarke giggled. Giggled. She was no better than any common maid.  
"You promised!" She said, feigning anger. Bellamy gave her a warning glance.  
"It's not a happy story."  
"Then I'll enjoy it."

He frowned at her, before finishing his drink in one long gulp. He wiped his mouth with sleeve, smirking at her grimace. Folding his arms he leant towards her.  
"My mother was a noble. My Father was not. She was Lady Aurora Blake. He was a nobody- a liar by trade." He clenched his fist.  
"I don't know how their relationship began, I don't really care either, all I know is that he deceived her into marrying him. She loved him, of that much I am sure. He was in love with the prospect of money. He left very suddenly, and how my mother hid her pregnancy from her household, I do not know. I was born, and she kept me hidden under the floorboards of her chambers. Anyway, he returned when I was four, claimed he had been trying to make his fortune by fighting in the Holy War but had little success. Complete bullshit obviously. Mother became with child again, and he asked for money, enough to buy them a house in the city to "raise the children". He left, and he never returned. Mother managed to get me a job in the kitchens, but Octavia..." He seemed pained by the memory. "She was kept under the floor. She was never let out beyond mother's chambers."  
Silence filled the air for the moment, as he seemed to struggle with his thoughts for a moment, before taking a breath and continuing.

"When I was ten winters old, we were discovered, it was my fault really, there was a masque, and O so wanted to see the ladies in their fine costumes... My grandfather disowned my mother in shame, and she was found by a maid in the river the next morning."  
Clarke paled in shock. Bellamy shrugged.  
"She knew in her heart that her "husband" had left her, and I suppose she could never get over it. Not even for her children. I knew, that O and I were no longer safe there, and we ran." He laughed at something.  
"It was the first time she had ever been outside, and I can tell you, it was some struggle trying to keep an excited five year old in check. We walked to the city, half-starved, and dove straight into a life of crime. We begged, we stole, I kept us alive. We were invisible in that sweltering, stinking city."  
"What changed?" Clarke asked, enthralled. She could listen to him speak endlessly, words seemed to come to him so easily. She wondered how often he had told this story. Whether it was in confidence, whether it was common knowledge, whether it was even true. She didn't really doubt him though- there was too much emotion in his voice.

"More like, who changed. Octavia grew, quite beautiful as you can see. It wasn't long before the looks men gave her were no longer ones of disgust or pity. They started coming to me, everyday, offering money for her, for her body... She was a child, twelve years old, just a child..." He drifted into quietness again, glaring at his empty mug.  
"One day, one of those bastards refused to take no for an answer, he attacked her, and I killed him. I put a rock to his skull then took his rusted blade, and put it through his eye." He said his voice void of any emotion. He sounded apathetic.  
"I killed him, and I feel no regret. I had no nightmares, I had his blood on my hands, and I didn't care. Do you fear me now Clarke?" She shook her head, staring at him in wonder. He smiled for a second, seemingly pleased that she wasn't scared.  
"I was clumsy about it, and I got caught. They bundled me and O into a cart with ninety-odd other children, off to be killed for sport, for petty crimes, though mine was, perhaps, a little more severe. Bastard deserved it though."  
He gave a small laugh as Clarke nodded earnestly in agreement.

"Do you have a violent streak, Lady Griffin?" He asked, bemused.  
"Against monsters I do."  
"Should I run?" He asked, jokingly. Clarke held his gaze.  
"You're not a monster." She said, blushing at the sincerity that rang through the words. They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, Bellamy pretending to be very interested in his knife, while Clarke regained her composure.

"Long story short, I gave one of my wonderfully inspiring speeches, I'm quite good at those, perhaps you'll be privy to one before our adventure is out. The 100 of us escaped, gathered a few more strays as we ran, and I just... became their leader I suppose. Our numbers grew, they've swollen quite spectacularly in the last year or two. Our dirty camp, is now a thriving village. We'll have to think up a name for it soon, perhaps you could help Princess... princess?" He asked, surprised by her silence.

"Clarke?" He asked, shoving her shoulder, chuckling to himself when he realised she was dead to the world, her mouth slack in a dreamless, drunken sleep. She would have quite the ache in her head in the morning, he thought, and if there was a God in this world, she'd forget all he told her. He felt like he could tell her his past, she was all pure light and innocence, but you could never know who to trust in these woods.  
He carried her to the room he had rented for the night. Octavia was already unconscious in the rickety bed. He lay Clarke down beside her gently, sweeping her blonde hair out of her face. What a bastard that Finn was, breaking something so good as Clarke's heart. A bastard and fool. He threw himself down on the other bed in the room, feeling a brief moment of pity for the others who would have to take the floor. Sleep came swiftly for once, and he fell into an exhausted rest, his dreams filled with dirty streets, and a forgiving angel with blonde hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Easter everyone! Hope you enjoyed this chapter and I'll post the next one soon :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke is recognised and She and Bellamy sort-of address their feelings. Prepare for lots of inner monologue.

Once, when Clarke was six, she was demonstrating to Wells that since she was smaller than him, she could climb trees better. She pulled herself up the old Oak in the courtyards with Wells half watching her, and half keeping an eye out for their respective parents. Everything was going well, until her foot caught on a rotten branch and she came tumbling down, striking her head on one of the old roots. She was left with shattered pride, a painful scolding from her mother, and a large bump on the back of her head that lasted for weeks. Clarke had never experienced a worse headache since the day she fell down from that tree.

Until now.

She groaned, pushing herself up from the thin mattress, massaging her skull with the heel of her hand. She wiped the sleep from her eyes and looked around the room. She did not recall falling asleep there, or even going there for that matter. Beside her was Octavia, slack-jawed, and an arm thrown over her eyes to block out the dawn light. Scattered on the floor were the sleeping forms of Miller, Murphy, Jasper and Monty. Every now and again Jasper let out a soft snore, that continued until Monty gave him a kick. Across the room, Bellamy lay sprawled across a second bed. It was far too small for him, and his legs hung off the opposite end. Like Octavia, he had an arm draped across his eyes.  _Must be a Blake thing_ Clarke thought to herself and stopped. Last night's conversation came flooding back to her in a tidal wave. Bellamy was a Blake. He was kin to one of the most wealthy families in the kingdom, was that family's  _heir._ Did he know?

She then blushed, recalling that while she now knew Bellamy's secret, he also knew about hers. She had not only told him about Finn, (she winced at what he must think of her now, running away to the city over a  _boy_ ) _,_ but she had also told him she was penniless. He hadn't pried thank God, there was no knowing what her drunken mind would have said.  
Her embarrassment became overwhelming, and she crept out of the room, in pursuit of water and fresh air.

* * *

The air outside was bitter, the ground covered with a thin layer of frost. It was still mostly dark outside, the sky a deep violet purple, with a hazy streak of warm golden light spread across the horizon. She breathed the sharp air in deeply, ignoring the way her head protested. Winter was closing in, her icy claws already sunken deep into the countryside. Soon, it would spread into the towns, and then the cities, and she would be trapped. Travel was forbidden after the first snowfall. Too dangerous. She'd have to enjoy her, somewhat limited, freedom while she could. On that note, Clarke took off to visit Butterfly, to ensure that the old mare had unfrozen water.

The horse raised her head at her entrance, and shook out her mane in greeting. Satisfied that she had water, Clarke dipped her hand into a nearby bag of oats, and stroked the animal's soft neck as she guzzled the oats from her palm. This was familiar. This was comforting. Clarke could almost pretend she was twelve years old again, doting on her father's stallion in the stables. Suddenly, Butterfly threw up her head, her ears flattened back. She whinneyed apprehensivly, and Clarke turned to find a man leaning against a door frame watching her.

Clarke felt herself relax slightly, when she realised he wasn't looking at her with want, just with mild confusion. Her stomach contracted painfully when she saw he was looking at her with hatred too. He took a couple of steps forward until Clarke was pinned against the door of Butterfly's stall. He grabbed Clarke's right wrist twisting her hand until her palm was facing her, her knuckles facing him. Clarke swore to herself. How could she have been such a sentimental fool?

Shining merrily on her index finger was the ruby red ring her father gave her for her fifteenth birthday- the last time she heard from him. However it wasn't just a jewel. Etched onto the front of it was the emblem of her family- a lion with feathered wings and a bird's head. A Griffin. She simply couldn't bare to part with it while they were traveling, and now she would pay the price. The man was staring at it thoughtfully, sending quick glances towards her face.  
"I thought I recognised you last night, blonde hair like yours would be hard to forget." He murmured, twisting her hand painfully, pinning it above her head.  
" _Lady_ Clarke Griffin." He said, flicking spit onto her face when he sneered her title.

"I used to work for your family, you know. I used to pick turnips during the spring, and shovel cow shit during the summer. Dirty work, filthy work. Work you would never even think about. I didn't mind though. There were worse jobs, and I  _thought_ your father," He spat again, "was a decent lord."  
He was fuming now, a vein throbbing in her neck, his eyes wide, teeth bared.  
"Do you remember what happened four summers ago  _m'lady_? Do you?" He hissed, twisting her arm again, forcing a cry of pain from her.  
"Please, of course I do..." Clarke whispered, crying out again, when he yanked on her hair, pulling her head back.  
"The sweat came, no warning, nothing. Overnight people were dying, it took everything from us. And what did your father do? He barricaded the doors to your castle! He knew it was coming and he left us out to rot." He was shouting now. He threw her to the ground, and kicked her hard in the stomach. He knelt over her, holding a rusted knife to her throat.  
"I lost everything- my mother, my father, my brother... my little brother..." His voice broke, and he dragged the knife across her arm. Clarke screamed, and he covered her mouth with his hand.  
"I don't know why you're here. But I think it's fitting. I've had to live without my family, and now your mother will have to live knowing that both her husband and daughter are dead. And the best part?" He said raising the knife above her chest, ready to plunge it down.  
"She won't even know how you died."

Suddenly, everything fell into shadow. Something grabbed the man's arms and pulled him off her. Clarke pushed herself up, and watched in horrified awe as Bellamy fought tooth and nail with her attacker. Part of her wanted to tell him to stop, that she deserved it but her tongue felt heavy in her mouth. She watched them struggle over the rusted knife, until they fell back onto the stone ground. It took a moment for Clarke to register that Bellamy was losing. The man had pinned him the ground like he had with her, and was punching Bellamy's face bloody. He stopped, clasping his hands around Bellamy's throat, mumbling incoherently about his revenge and the like, as he squeezed the life from him. Clarke stood up quietly from where she stood and picked up the knife from where it had fallen. She walked towards them, noticing absent-mindedly how silent her tread was, mulching over the damp hay.

"God forgive me." She whispered out loud, before plunging the knife into the side of his neck.

He let out a strangled gasp, which only resulted in him coughing up some clotted, crimson blood. Clarke watched in disturbed fascination. She had killed a man. He fell backward, more blood pouring from his mouth, staining his lips red. His eyes were wide and staring, and it was that which forced Clarke to look away. She fell to her knees, feeling her whole body shaking. Bellamy had risen from the ground, panting heavily. Silence swirled around them. Clarke hadn't noticed light filling the room, but it was proof at how long the silence lasted. Bellamy began to drag the corpse from the stables, and Clarke watched him heave it into the nearby well. There was a pause, and then a sickening splash.

Bellamy came back in and knelt beside her. Without warning, he pulled her into his arms, laying her head against his chest. When she felt the material of his shirt wet against her cheek, she realised she was crying. Now all she could hear was her mournful sobs, and his comforting murmurs of "It's alright" and "He would have killed you Clarke, he would have killed you."  
She didn't know how long they sat there, but eventually her sobs quietened. She wiped her eyes, and turned her face to look him in the eye.

"Did you hear what he said?" She asked, her voice still shaking. He nodded.  
"Some of it."  
"It was the truth mostly, though he was wrong about my father. He was already gone when the sweat came."  
Bellamy brushed her tear-dampened hair from her face.  
"Clarke, you don't need to tell me..."  
"No I do." She whispered, pulling herself off him, and bristling slightly at cold air that rushed against her cheeks.

"I'm sure you remember the summer four years passed. How it was dry, sweltering, and how quickly disease spread that year."  
"I remember," Bellamy muttered, "It was out first summer with The 100, we lost eight..."  
Clarke continued.  
"My father knew we would be hit right during harvesting time. He wanted to warn our serfs, let them prepare, but my mother and the king disagreed. They thought it would cause a panic, and that we would lose the summer crop. Thelonious warned my father not to breathe a word. He confided in me that he was going to tell them anyway."

She felt tears form at her eyes again, threatening to spill over.  
"I was thirteen, and I did what every thirteen year old does when she has a secret. I told my best friend. I told Wells."  
Bellamy's eyes widened.  
"Wells? The crown prince Wells?" He gave a breathy laugh when Clarke nodded.  
"You told the King's son, that your father was going to betray the King?"  
Even under the circumstances, Clarke laughed at his ridiculing tone- it was slightly hysterical, but it was a laugh all the same.  
"I thought I could trust him. That was back when I thought one could have friends in court," She swallowed, grasping for a way to continue, "As you can already tell, Wells told his father."

"A week before that poor man lost his family, I lost my father. Thelonious banished him to the crusades, returning on pain of death."  
"Why not execute him? He committed treason." Bellamy said bluntly, then looking embarrassed at his choice of words. Clarke shrugged.  
"I suppose he couldn't bare to kill his closest friend. Though he did in the end." She twisted the ring around her finger.  
"This was the last sign I got from him that he was still alive. It arrived on my birthday, two years ago. We've heard nothing since."  
Bellamy looked at her with pity.  
"What happened? During the sweat." He asked gently. Clarke sighed.  
"We lost half of our serfs, and all of our crops. It was mostly children who died, as it always is. That man's brother was one of many. It was my mother who closed the doors on our people that day, though I did little to stop her. After that they began to leave one by one, and my mother did nothing to stop them. We had no one to pick the crops, and then we had no one to sow them, and now we have nothing at all. Everything hangs on me marrying Wells."  
Bellamy looked at her, something in his eyes that Clarke didn't understand.  
"You're going to marry the man that betrayed your father?" he asked his voice causing Clarke's stomach to flip.  
"I have no choice."

They drifted into silence again, Clarke was leaning back against his chest again, though she didn't know when she returned to his embrace. There was a small patch of blood where her kill had been laying, and she almost felt she could burn it away with her gaze.  
"They say you never forget your first." Bellamy joked from behind her, before standing up, pulling her to her feet also.  
"You did the right thing Clarke. It's kill or be killed in this life, and you are part of that system, no matter how temporarily. But that doesn't mean your immune to it's consequences and we need to leave, before some poor bar maid finds the body in the well. Are you alright to saddle Butterfly?" she nodded.  
"Then do it while I wake the others. I'll send Octavia down to you and we'll meet in the yard in fifteen minutes. Try not to get into anymore fights." He said with a sly grin, and Clarke relaxed slightly, knowing that nothing had changed.

* * *

Bellamy dumped a bucket of water on his sleeping comrades and they were  _very_ vocal about their discomfort. Octavia had left to stay with Clarke immediately after he told her the story, leaving him with the men. He threw pairs of boots and jackets at them, while they dried themselves off. Miller was the first to notice Bellamy's face.  
"Christ Bell, what happened?" He asked, though his voice implied he could already guess.  
"I had a run in with a drunkard in the stables, got a little carried away and now he's at the bottom of a well. We need to leave. Now."

"What were you fighting over?" Murphy said curiously as he laced his boots. Bellamy hesitated for only a moment.  
"It's not important." He mumbled before heading out the door.  
"Which means it was over Clarke." Murphy muttered as they followed him outside.

* * *

 

Clarke scraped the blood off her hands with her nails. She couldn't tell if her hands were red from the stains or from the icy water in the trough. She got more and more frantic, feeling her eyes getting hot with tears again. As soon as Bellamy left, she had begun to panic again, and it was in this state that Octavia found her.  
Octavia barely looked at her before pulling her into an embrace, soothing her gently.  
"I had to..." Clarke muttered, repeating it to herself over and over, unsure if she was trying to convince Octavia or herself. She felt Octavia nod against her hair.  
"I know you did. We have to clean you up before the others come down, alright?" she whispered, her confident tone, inspiring confidence in Clarke too. She nodded, and allowed Octavia to clean the ugly wound on her arm. They were silent for a moment, as Octavia bandaged Clarke's arm with obvious expertise. They heard footsteps in the distance, and Octavia looked at Clarke with oddly-intense eyes.

"Whether you did it to save him or yourself, you saved my brother's life. He won't thank you, but I will." She gave Clarke a smile filled with gratitude as she whispered "Thank you". Clarke returned her smile weakly before walking over to the now saddled Butterfly, stroking her soft muzzle and mane, plaiting it absent mindedly.

"I'll plait your hair for you later if you like. It's getting dirty, and you can't enjoy that." Octavia said straight-forwardly, pointing at the mess that was Clarke's hair. Clarke tried to run her fingers through it, and laughed at how they immediately became stuck.  
"Thank you, I appreciate it." Clarke said, a little embarrassed that she hadn't thought of her hair since they left nearly five days ago. Five days. Not even a week. Had it only been that long? Her aching bones screamed that it had been longer, and she swore the waistband of her breeches felt looser. Her hand went to her chin, and the dry scab from four days ago was now gone, replaced with dry, flaky skin. The bruise on her forehead was still tender to touch, but barely noticeable otherwise. She didn't know how it looked though. To everyone else it was probably a delightful shade of green, or charming pus- yellow. All signs that time had passed.

Then there was her company.  _Friends_ her mind tentatively said as she looked at the people walking towards her. How could she barely know them, yet feel as though she knew them better than anyone she'd ever met? She supposed that it was because she'd seen the essence of who they were.

In court, everybody wore a permanent mask. A mask that was never removed, for fear that people would see the atrocities hidden underneath. You only knew the person, that the person wanted you to know. Even Clarke had put on an act, pretending to be the docile, gentle Lady that everyone expected her to be, while silently condemning them all to hell in her head.  
Here, wherever  _here_ was, there was no reason to hide who you were. There was no pretending, no lying, you are who you are, and that's that. She'd seen more adventure, more hate, more passion, more reality in these last five days, than she had ever seen in her whole life.

_I want to help them,_ she decided as Bellamy helped her secure the sack of, no doubt stolen, food on to Butterfly.  _Whether Jaha rewards them or not, I want to make their lives better. That_  power would not vex her when she was Queen. And then, for the first time since Ark, did the reality of what she was doing hit her. Dear God, she'd have to marry Wells. Why did that thought sicken her so much more now than it did a week ago? A pair of brown eyes flashed across her thoughts in answer, and she felt herself blush.  _Ridiculous_ she thought, as they prepared to leave the Two-Faced Deer's yard.

She felt eyes burning into her skin, and found Murphy staring at the fresh bandage on her arm, already stained with patchy blood. She quickly pulled down the sleeve of her shirt, and watched his gaze flicker away with embarrassment. Suddenly two hands wrapped around her waist, and then her feet were lifted off the ground. Seconds later she found herself on Butterfly's back, the mare giving a huff of protest.

"Figured you could use a rest, Princess." Bellamy said with a grin, and Clarke forced the feeling of his hands on her waist from her mind. Of course then, all she was met with was the memory of his embrace as she cried into his chest, barely an hour ago, and then the feeling of her arms wrapped around his neck, as he pulled her through the river. She prayed he couldn't see what she was thinking. He seemed to misread her expression, and his face became solemn, placing a comforting hand on her wrist.

"Princess, who we are, and who we need to be to survive, are two very different things. What we are, and what we have done, do not define us. Remember that."

She nodded, ignoring her racing heart, and urged Butterfly forward, relishing in the way his hand stayed on her until he was forced to pull away.

* * *

_Stupid Princess._ He thought angrily, as he stared at the back of her irritatingly beautiful head. She was everything that he was supposed to loathe, and  _had_  been everything he had loathed, up until when... actually thinking about it he didn't know when his hatred for her had changed into...  _this._ She was proud, and entitled and unworthily rich,  _though not really_ he reminded himself. How could he hate her now, knowing that she was selling herself to a man she hardly knew for the sake of her home and people? Stupid  _brave_ princess.

Even now, bruised and bloody, she held herself like she owned the dirt beneath her, like Butterfly was an Arabian mare, and that she was wearing indian silks and cloth of gold, instead of the dirty rags that hung off her thin frame. He held himself the same way, but for him it was to intimidate and belittle those around him. For her it seemed to come so naturally. A reflex action. A shield.

_They were the same._

His eyes widened at the thought. Was that why he felt this need to protect her? She was his kindred spirit? He almost laughed at himself. Since when did he believe in faeries and soulmates, and whatever other nonsense the Grounder,  _that Octavia thought he didn't know about_ , told his sister? He made a mental note to discuss that particular issue with Octavia when he returned home, the dalliance had been going on for long enough, and would probably get them both killed in the end. He then began making a list of all the things that needed to be done back once he was home, and pretended he didn't notice every time Clarke glanced at him over her shoulder, irritated every time she didn't.

* * *

The knife missed its mark again. Clarke sighed, frustrated, before getting up, and locating the rusted dagger. Yes, she had kept her assailant's weapon, now using it as her own. The others had fallen into their exhausted sleep hours ago, but, as she expected, the promise of nightmares taunted her, and she had picked up the blade, determined to know how to wield it by morning, even though she knew that was impossible.  
She reset herself into position, and aimed at the clumsily carved "x" in the tree opposite her. She pulled back her arm, and promptly dropped the knife when a now- familiar voice pierced through the sounds of the night and Jasper's odd snore.

"Your grip is wrong." Bellamy teased, watching her with his arms folded. Though his face was mostly in shadow, Clarke knew, with very little doubt, that he was giving her that goddamn expression again. The one that made her feel as though he was laughing at her, and surprised by her at the same time. She could never tell if he was taking her seriously or not.

"Is it?" Clarke said defeated, picking up the knife and aiming it again. She heard him approach her.  
"Here." he said kindly, with the patient voice of a born teacher, as he wrapped his hand around hers fixing the knife in front of her.  
"You are gripping the handle, when what you should be doing is holding the knife steady by placing your thumb here..." He said moving her thumb so that it pressed gently into the blunt edge of the knife.

"Doesn't your grip feel firmer? Now when you throw the knife..." He said pulling her arm back, and then throwing the knife with her. They both stared dumbfounded as the knife flew passed the tree landing in a patch of grass yards away. They both burst out laughing, falling into each others arms. One of the others stirred at the noise, and they hushed each other into silence, the desperation of trying to be quiet only making everything funnier.  
"Well, it did seem to miss more accurately this time..." Clarke whispered, breathless from the laughter, before noticing that his hand still hadn't left hers, and that his other hand had found its way onto her waist. Every sound they made seemed amplified by a thousand, Clarke was sure that her heartbeat would wake everyone. Their breath mingled like it had the day she cured him, and Clarke found herself brushing away the hair from his forehead. He raised their entwined hands up to the moonlight, inspecting the way her hand fit into his, as though it fascinated him. He let go, his hand falling to her cheek, stroking it with the back of his fingers. Clarke felt her eyes flutter closed against her will, knowing now that all it would take was one of them moving closer, she could already taste his breath on her tongue...

He pulled away abruptly, clearing his throat and shoving his hands into his pockets.

"You, um, need a better knife, I'll go see if I have a spare with me. Try to sleep, if we move fast we can have you back to the city in two days,  _Princess_." He muttered, almost as if she wasn't there, marching back to the group and settling himself in his usual place between Octavia and Miller.

His nickname for her had struck her more painfully than any hit she had taken so far. She knew what had happened, she had forgotten her place, he had forgotten his, and he had just reminded her, in the most effective way possible, that there were some lines they couldn't cross. He had been the honorable one. Thank God he had been, otherwise she would have been unfaithful to Wells before they were even married. She should have felt beyond relieved, but why did she feel like she could cry?

That scared her even more. She never cried over Finn. Sure, she hid herself in her room for weeks, but that was more out of shame and embarrassment than anything else. Then, she was sad over what could have been. What excuse did she have now? She was like every maiden in every ballad she had scoffed at, pining away over the handsome scoundrel that saved her life.

Now she felt angry. He was the reason her life was in danger in the first place! If it were not for him, she would be safe in Jaha's palace, warm, well fed,  _comfortable._ She would not be mourning a life she could never have, because she wouldn't know it existed. Her biggest problem would be finding a way to forgive her fiance, and she would be  _asleep right now._

She practically threw herself on the ground between Octavia and Jasper, and fell asleep, completely resolved to hate Bellamy Blake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wanted to thank everyone for their support- It's the only thing keeping me going :) Please tell me what you think so far!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Goodbyes and impulsive decisions.

Bellamy woke, as he usually did, first. He stretched out on the hard ground, careful not to hit Miller or Octavia, and attempted to remember why he was dreading the day. He sat up, looking around the makeshift camp, making sure all were accounted for. Then, out of the sea of dark-haired heads, he spotted the golden blonde one, and last night hit him harder than one of Octavia's punches.

He nearly kissed Clarke. He, the probably-bastard son of a fallen lady, a rebel, a thief, a nothing, had nearly kissed his goddamn future  _Queen._ And he wasn't even  _drunk._ He had wanted to, God, he had _wanted_ to. It had been coming for days he decided, ever since he took that fucking arrow for her. But what had shocked him into pulling away, was that  _she_ hadn't pulled away. Had she _been_ away from her life for so long that she had forgotten who and what she was? That she was  _everything?_ One of the few people in this godforsaken land that actually deserved all that had been given to her?

He stood up, running a hand through his dirty hair, suppressing a groan. He rooted through the packs, pulling out the knife he had promised her. It was a good blade, a little old perhaps, but far from dull. It was light, the hilt was wrapped with leather, engraved with swirling leaves and flowers, and it just wasn't  _her_ at all. He frowned for a moment, wondering why that mattered to him. He walked over to where she slept. She seemed peaceful, but her eyes, even closed, looked red.  _Tears,_ he thought,  _did I cause those?_ Again, why did that fucking matter to him? His mind's voice laughed at him, because he knew the answer.

He cared about her- no it was more than that. He wanted her to be happy, above his own happiness. He hated the God who made her an angel, and him the goddamned dirt she walked under. He hated this Wells prince, he hated her mother, he hated Finn whoever the hell he was. He hated the drunkard who approached him about her in the bar, and hated him more when he attacked her the next morning _._ He should have killed him there and then, everybody knows not to question Bellamy about his women.  _She's not your woman!_ He thought to himself angrily. With a frustrated sigh he placed his beloved silver dagger at her side, placing the leather-hilted one at his hip. Silver seemed to suit her more.

He had to get her to that palace, and soon, because there would come a day when he couldn't care less that she was a brave princess and he was the rebel king.

* * *

Clarke rolled the dagger in her hands as they walked, twisting the hilt in her right hand, the point of the blade pressing gently into her left palm. She knew the knife was  _his,_ it was the one he had used to cut her dress, her blindfold and given to Kane to kill her. She didn't want to think about why he gave it to her, an apology of some description she supposed. She didn't want to think about him at all, and avoided looking at him, pretending that she wasn't hurt by how he seemed to be doing the same thing.

There had been a blissful thirty seconds that morning, in between sleeping and being fully awake, when she had forgotten about the night before. She had forgotten the feeling of their fingers entwined, his breath against her mouth, his hand curled at her waist. And then, she opened her eyes, to find him staring at her, and she suddenly wanted a glass of Monty's moonshine, very,  _very,_ badly. She still wanted to ask for some now.

Instead, she made a list of things she'd have once she got to the capital, tomorrow night according to Octavia. She'd have warm baths, food that didn't taste like it had been dried and pickled three years ago, clean clothes, books... her mind grew weary as it thought up of more negative things she'd have in the castle than good things. There'd be society in general, feasts and dinners she'd have to dance at, everybody's eyes on her, all the time. Constricting dresses and endless gossip. She'd have to go back to pretending she was insipid, had no thoughts, no wants, to ideas. She would never be allowed out late enough to count the stars the way she had for the last five nights. She would never again be allowed to live the way she had for the last five days.

The thought made her want to cry.

How,  _how,_ could she go back to that life? She'd die, she knew she would. Her only companions would be ladies who simpered and smiled at her face, and then whispered anything about her, to anyone they could find. The only times she'd step outside would be to cheer Wells on in a hunt, while he caught a conveniently slow deer, or perhaps at a joust, where no one would dare hurt him. And she'd have to marry him, marry him while she felt this way about another man... whatever  _this way_ was.

The rest of the journey was at best uneventful and at worst painfully awkward. Dinner that night began as a quiet affair. Part of Clarke was glad, she didn't need any nostalgic memories about their final meal, but another, more depressing, side of her was a little melancholic that she seemed to be the only one who had grown attached. That was at the beginning of the night however.

First Monty and Jasper approached her, and handed her a small vial of a clear looking liquid. Monty explained that it would help her sleep, and quickly.  
"Might be a little hard to transition from sleeping under a tree to sleeping on a four-poster. This should get you through the first week."  
After a moment of deliberation he nodded at Jasper, who pulled out a flask of moonshine from under his cloak, handing it to her awkwardly.  
"If all else fails, this should do the trick too."

Clarke laughed, tucking the two gifts into her sack.  
"I'm sorry we couldn't have met under different circumstances. If ever you need work, there are places already reserved for you in the guard." She said, hoping she didn't sound to hopeful. Monty shook his head sadly. Jasper looked like he wanted to say something, and ignored the warning look Monty gave him.  
"And if you ever need a job, Princess... we could do with a rebel queen." Jasper said, his tone joking but his eyes serious. Clarke blanched, and Monty hit him across the forearm. They laughed it off awkwardly, and Jasper wouldn't look her in the eye for the rest of the night. It wasn't the last goodbye Clarke received though.

Miller came next, approaching her as she gathered firewood. He stood stiffly as he said very quickly that The 100 were bound by oath to not show loyalty to the monarchy, but if they did there was no queen he'd rather be loyal to. Seconds later he picked up the wood in his arms, and carried on as if he had said nothing.  
Even Murphy said his goodbyes, mumbling something about "Hoping she wasn't killed or some shit", before gruffly adding "lower those goddamn taxes".

Clarke was taken aback by the whole thing, wondering what she had done or said that won them their respect. Surely it couldn't just be because she had "saved" Bellamy's life?

As Octavia plaited Clarke's hair for the last time, she suddenly embraced her from behind, stifling a sob into her shoulder. She then described, quite graphically, what she would to Wells, if she ever discovered he hurt Clarke.  
_He already has,_ thought Clarke to herself, though electing not to mention it to Octavia. Wells' ability to make children was far too important to the realm, to lose over a personal vendetta.

The two young women hugged each other tight, and Clarke offered Octavia a place a court, though she knew there was no point. Octavia would never leave Bellamy, Lincoln and her freedom. Octavia jokingly asked Clarke to name the first born Princess after her. Clarke promised that she would.

And now she was saying her final goodbye, stroking Butterfly's soft fur, and whispering her farewell.  
"If Bellamy does insist on selling you, once we're in the City, I'll buy you," She promised into her mane, "And you'll live out the rest of your days in green pastures, and feeding on the same oats that make the King's bread."

"Is that a promise, Princess? Because I won't accept less than thirty gold pieces." Bellamy said from behind her. Clarke tensed for a moment, electing to stay silent. But no God or force on this earth, however, could keep Bellamy quiet when he wanted to speak.  
"Turns out all my men are sentimental fools. I hope they didn't drive you to tears with the heart-wrenching farewells?" He said, patting Butterfly on the rump. Clarke shrugged.

"I'll admit they took me by surprise. I had no idea I had affected them so." She mumbled, still touched by their words. Bellamy laughed.  
"I chose our company carefully, m'lady. Excepting Octavia and I, all of our travelers were once from Griffin lands- Ark lands. Most of their families still live there. I wanted men with us who were loyal to you, or at least, respected you enough to not murder you while you slept. Had to keep an eye on Murphy for a while though." He said solemnly, startling Clarke for a moment until she realized he was teasing. She relaxed a little.

"Still doesn't explain why your fools were so sentimental today. They could have said there goodbyes tomorrow." She inquired, glancing up at Bellamy who seemed very interested in the blanket draped over Butterfly's back. He let out a huff of breath.  
"They turn back to the village in the morning. I'll take you to Jaha, then catch up with them in two days time with horses." He grunted, watching carefully for her reaction.

"Come all this way, and not even rest in the city for a couple of days?" Clarke gasped, a little annoyed that no one had told her this before. She had intended to have all the men knighted before they returned.

"It makes more sense this way. Murphy would just get arrested within ten minutes of city life, God knows what O would do, and the rest would just get pissed drunk. This was always the plan."  
Clarke nodded, before taking a deep breath, and speaking the words she had been rehearsing all day.

"Bellamy, I don't want my last day of freedom to be spent in discomfort. I have a fiance awaiting me, and you, no doubt, have a harem to return to. Can we please pretend that yesterday never happened?" She half-whispered. She was afraid her voice would falter, because she really, really,  _didn't_ want to pretend yesterday never happened. Her heart sank a little when she saw Bellamy nod.

"That's what I intended to do anyway." He said back to her, with half a smile.  
"What _didn't_  happen meant nothing right? We were both just exhausted and a little pissed. Nothing more." He shrugged. Clarke paled, before stammering out her agreement.

He had been  _drunk_? And just assumed she was too. Oh dear Lord, here she was, practically swooning over him all day, while all she was to him was a pretty face to pursue while he was drunk. Oh this made so much more sense, and made everything so much more simpler, now that she knew there were no feelings involved. At least, on his part.

And now she felt worse than she ever did before.

She whispered her excuses to him, mumbling something about needing sleep, before turning back on her heel, covering her mouth with her hand. Finally, far enough into the woods that she assumed no one could hear her, she let out her long-contained sob.

_Was she in love with him_?, was the first question her mind asked, and even she scoffed at that. Of course not, no one in their right mind claimed love after less than a week.  
_Could she_ fall _in love with him_? came next, and the answer to that wasn't so readily available. She thought she loved Finn. Or rather, she liked that Finn loved her. Which was almost the same thing, she had thought. This was so much more different. Who knew something could make you feel so wonderful, while feeling like it could kill you at the same time?  _He had been drunk._

She cursed the words she had been rehearsing all day, that had brought on this new revelation.

And little did she know, that as Bellamy took a draught from his flask, he was cursing the words  _he_ had been rehearsing all day too.

* * *

 

For the first time since her journey began, Clarke couldn't see the crisp autumn sunset. Dark, murky clouds swirled overhead, threatening to release their contents on to the earth. Clarke wondered if God was taunting her, reflecting the emotions of her heart in the heavens. The city sprawled beneath them, and against the stormy sky, was the dark silhouette of the castle.

"Your home." Bellamy muttered, his voice not quite as teasing as he hoped it would be. To him, it just sounded resentful.  
Clarke nodded, and then he urged Butterfly forward, starting the descent into the City, the City that offered everything you wanted, in exchange for everything you had.

 

**_That morning_ **

For the second time in a row, Clarke's eyes burned from the tears shed the night before. Part of her knew that the tears weren't just from heartache. If she were not hungry, or not simply exhausted, perhaps she would have been able to contain the emotions that had escaped her at last. Perhaps, it was just this never ending road that drew out all you kept hidden.

Perhaps she had gone mad.

She rubbed her eyes, and found she was the last to wake up. She quickly tidied up her sleeping patch, stepping over the smoldering embers of the fire and walked over to where the others were waiting. They were standing in the middle of the road, seemingly sorting through the last of the food, discussing what could be spared for Bellamy and Clarke, and what would do for the others, until Bellamy caught up with them. The original plan had been to meet back at the Two-Faced Deer, but those plans had been... thwarted. Instead, they were to take the road as slowly as possible. Clarke couldn't help but feel a little bit to blame, though Octavia had tried to soothe her worries more than once. She didn't know how she had survived without Octavia before, or how she would survive without her now.

She did not know how she would survive, period.

They seemed to be finished distributing the food, some salted meat and a partly-stale loaf of bread going into Bellamy's bag, and the rest being repacked into the others. They all stood silent for a moment, and Clarke looked at each of them closely, committing their faces to memory. God willing, she would never forget them.

Bellamy hoisted himself onto Butterfly, his expression very dark. Octavia ran forward and embraced Clarke tightly, before helping Clarke onto the horse's back. Once settled, Clarke gently wrapped her arms around Bellamy's waist, careful not to let her expression give her feelings away. Octavia took her brother's hand and squeezed it gently.  
"Godspeed, brother." She said, and gave him a very pointed look, and Clarke could practically  _feel_ Bellamy roll his eyes, though she didn't know why. He urged Butterfly into a trot, and they left the others behind them.  
As they moved down the road, Clarke heard Jasper shout, "All hail the queen", and then to her surprise, heard a chorus of "hail" from behind her.

If Bellamy felt the wetness of her tears through his shirt, he didn't say anything.

* * *

Now, after hours of nonstop travelling, Clarke could see the imposing city gates approaching them. Even in the dull light, they shone brightly, their gold enameling, no doubt, supposed to be welcoming. Now, they just felt mocking. Once behind them, she'd be trapped forever. A spark of hope coursed through her- They didn't let just anybody into the kings city, and there was no way the guards would believe she was a lady...  
_Perhaps they won't let us through,_ She thought desperately,  _perhaps we look untrustworthy and-  
_ "State your business." The guard asked, sounding bored stiff. A second guard poked and prodded at their bags and cloaks, his nose turned up as if he smelt something bad. He probably did, Clarke realised, she hadn't washed in over a week, and God knows when Bellamy washed last.

"Just my wife and I, visiting her relatives." Bellamy said cheerfully, swinging down off Butterfly. Clarke kept her head down, heaven forbid they recognized her and arrested Bellamy for her kidnap.  
"Why does she look away so?" The second guard asked, trying to tilt her head with his hand. Bellamy placed a warning hand on the man's arm, his voice sounding calm, but his eyes threatening.  
"She's sick with the movement of the horse, poor woman. I just want to get her rested. Her stomach is empty from her retching, but still..." The guard removed his hand hastily, wiping it on his breastplate.  
"Yes, well, carry on."

"Thanking you kindly." Bellamy muttered leading Butterfly forward through the gates and into the city. Clarke turned her head, watching the countryside and her freedom disappearing outside the closing gates.

The heavens opened while they moved towards the castle. Bellamy swore, but then mumbled how it was a good thing- the streets would clear, and they'd reach Jaha faster. True to his word, they were alone in the streets, covered carts and stalls surrounding them, with the occasional sad looking cow giving them a hopeful glance. Clarke noticed the cobblestones getting smoother and cleaner as they reached the heart of the city, and with each new house they passed, she felt herself grip Bellamy tighter, knowing she never wanted to let go.

All to soon, they found themselves in the heart of the city, the Castle's courtyard. It was relatively empty, save for a few disgruntled looking knights, taking shelter from the bitter rain. Bellamy moved to help Clarke down from Butterfly, and she let him, his hands gripping her waist one last time, her hands braced on his shoulders. Their eyes met for a moment, until Bellamy's eyes flickered away. He shook himself, and started leading her towards the castle doors. They stalled outside them, Bellamy giving a questioning look to one of the guards who was watching them curiously. When the guard did nothing, Bellamy shrugged and began to push open the wooden doors. Of course they were stopped, two of the knights, pushing Bellamy against the wall, while grabbing Clarke from behind.  
"Who are you? What are you delivering?" One of the knights asked, pointing his sword at Bellamy's throat. Bellamy nodded towards Clarke, and shrugged.

"Lady Clarke Griffin, of course."

* * *

Inside the castle walls, Clarke felt her knees go weak from the finality of it all. She tried to walk steadily, but felt her legs go from underneath her, preparing herself for the stone floor, when Bellamy caught, his arms looped around her, pulling her up against his chest. She steadied herself, giving him a nod of thanks. In the chaos surrounding them, she met his eye quickly.  
"Thank you. For everything." She mumbled. He looked like he was about to say something, when someone called her name from a height. They both turned towards the interruption.

"Clarke!" Wells called again from the top of the stairs, before running down them, almost pushing people out of the way. He pulled her from Bellamy's arms, inspecting her face in horror. Bellamy had to physically restrain himself from punching him. How dare he touch her like that? And then he remembered that Wells had more right to, than he ever would. It was then, that reality came crashing down. He would never see her again. They'd take her away, fashion her into the queen they wanted, and she'd forget his face one day.

Unless he did something, very,  _very,_ stupid.

"I'm not going to lie, Clarke, I can hardly recognise you!" Wells said, only half-joking. She smiled at him weakly, as he walked her away with promises of wine, food and rest.  
"And a bath." He added, smiling this time. Clarke was barely listening, as she watched Bellamy over her shoulder.

Hours later, and Clarke was sitting in her new chambers, allowing several maids to braid her wet hair. She _looked_ much better, at least. This would help her hide how miserable she felt. Finally at a mirror, she could inspect her injuries for the first time.  
Her eyes were bright and her cheeks rosy from the steam of the bath, and the purple rings under her eyes had faded to a slightly bruised-looking lavender. The cut on her chin was barely noticeable, just shiny and pinkish-red. Her bruise was now a pale yellow that almost matched her skin tone.

She had laughed out loud earlier, at the faces her maids made, while they were helping her clean. One audibly shrieked at the jagged scar on her arm. The others removed her from the room very quickly. She stopped laughing once they started pulling brushes through the rat's nest that was her hair.

She was reflecting back now, on the brief meeting she had with Jaha and his court. Jaha wanted to hear of nothing but her health, until she insisted that Bellamy was paid his due. She told the King that Bellamy was a farmer's aid who heard her struggling with bandits. She made a great fuss about how he fought them off on his own, ignoring the slightly bemused grin he was giving her. Better she milked this for all it was worth,exaggerate everything like the silly woman she was, less people started asking for more details. Within days the story would be exaggerated by gossipers anyway. Eventually, she was allowed to go back to her chambers, leaving Jaha to discuss Bellamy's reward with him.

Now she was sitting quietly in a new nightgown, her hair smoothly pulled back, and almost perfectly styled, while she ate at the fruit and cheese left on the table beside her. She had eaten every day, Bellamy had made sure of that, but even so, she would treasure every meal she had from now until the day she died. She could see the handmaids raising their eyebrows at the amount of food she had consumed since she walked through the door, but she honestly did not care.

She didn't care about anything like that anymore. Now she was worrying about how she would deal with Wells, what problems in the real world she would tackle first, and how in God's name, she would say goodbye to Bellamy. Suddenly, there was a rough knock at the door, and she knew she had very little time to reach a decision on the latter problem.

Bellamy stood awkwardly in the tiny door frame, the maids staring at him in admiration, one daring to look him up from head to foot. Clarke cleared her throat loudly, and they all jumped at the noise.  
"You can leave us." she said, hoping her voice wasn't shaking.  
"But my lady-" One of them interrupted, her eyes wide in shock at Clarke's command. Clarke's eyes narrowed.  
"Now."

They all filed out, one by one, the last closing the door behind her, after shooting a curious look at Clarke, until it was just Bellamy leaning against one of the poles of the bed and Clarke sitting with her hands folded on her lap.

"Did you get what you wanted?" She asked, wincing at how timid her voice sounded. He nodded.  
"One thousand gold pieces. Enough to get us through three winters at least. They even offered me a place on the royal guard." They both burst out laughing at the very idea of him in the shiny gold armor.

"Wells would die if he found out what you are." Clarke said, her voice still jumpy from the laughter. She smiled at him, but her grin faltered when she saw how serious his expression had become.

"Are you really going to marry him? I mean, how could  _you_ , of all people..." He said, shaking his head from the impossibility of it all. They fell into silence until Clarke said wistfully-  
"I have no choice."

Bellamy became angry, a manic look in his eyes.  
"Goddammit, Clarke, you do."  
He paced the room for a moment, running a hand through his hair, until he walked over to her, pulling her to her feet. His hands never left her arms.

"If I were a better man, a selfless man, I would bend the knee, kiss your hand, walk out that door, and never see you again.  
But I'm not that man. Above all things I'm selfish, which is why I'm here."  
He took her hands in his, the manic look in his eyes becoming something softer.

"Run away with me. You can come back with me, and your freedom can still be saved. They don't know you like I do, Wells, will never know you as I do. You might not be Queen of the castle, but you could be Queen of something much better. Queen of the rebels." He finished, his voice whispered unsaid promises. Clarke paled in shock. Of all the scenarios she imagined happening this was not one of them.

"Good god," Clarke whispered, "Is this a proposal?"  
Bellamy laughed.  
"It's whatever the hell you want, princess."

Clarke pulled herself away from him, leaning out the open window, trying to clear her head.  
"You said you were drunk, you don't feel as I do..." Bellamy pulled her away from the window, brushing wisps of hair of her face, before settling one hand at the back of her neck, the other stroking her cheek.

"You know that I do."  
His eyes dropped to her lips, and then she was kissing him.

When Finn had kissed her, it was gentle, his lips barely there, showing affection, but always careful, fearful of her reputation, her merit, her virtue...  
Bellamy didn't give a damn about that.  
His lips moved against hers, as if he was desperate, as if he was drowning and she was the first water he'd had in days. He kissed her as if they were nobodies, and yet made her feel like she was everything at the same time.

She was breathless when he pulled away, his hand tangled in her hair, her arms still locked behind his neck. With a breathy laugh, he took her hand, and began pulling her towards the door.  
"We'll have to hurry. It'll be noon before they realise you're gone, but we'll have made good distance by then, I've secured two good horses. They won't think you'll have gone with me anyway. Get dressed as fast as you can, I'll pack up this cheese, that'll last..." He stopped, when he noticed the tears falling down her cheeks.  
"Clarke, what's wrong?" He asked gently, brushing the tears away with his thumb.

"Bellamy, I... I can't."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been a while, and I can't guarantee the next chapter will be soon either. Thank you so much to everyone who commented, your praise and criticism is very much appreciated :) I don't think there is any mistakes, but if you catch any feel free to point them out! Until next time!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Final showdown between Bellamy and Clarke, and then bigger problems arrive.

"Can't?" He whispered, his voice betraying his shock. Clarke winced at his voice, trying desperately not to cry, and failing miserably. She couldn't make this any worse than it had to be. She took a deep shuddering breath, looking everywhere except in his eyes.  
"My people Bellamy, they're starving and their  _entire_ lives depends on me marrying well..." She said, her voice strong, but barely louder than a whisper. Bellamy scoffed as soon as she had begun, running his hands through his hair, like he always did when he was frustrated. He took her face in his hands again, brushing away the wetness on her cheeks with his thumb.  
"They don't give a damn about your happiness, Clarke. Why should you give a damn about theirs?" He asked, the gentle tone of his voice contrasting with the severity of his words.

"Because, if I don't... who will?" She pleaded, silently begging him to understand, while praying that he would take her away.  
They fell into silence, Bellamy unable to answer her. He'd forgotten in that brief moment of insanity, that just because he was selfish and impulsive, it didn't mean she was. He lifted his head to look at her and found that she was thinking, biting her bottom lip, brow furrowed. She met his gaze, unsure.  
"Say it, what are you thinking?" He whispered, annoyed at the new hope that filled his voice.

"Blake House" was all she said, muttered really, as she paced the space between him and her bed.  
"What about Blake House?" He answered warily.  
"There is a way... a way we could be happy." She said timidly. Bellamy was still hopeful, but the mention of his family had brought an uneasiness into his stomach.

"You know, don't you? Five years ago, there was a fire, everyone perished but a few servants... the house still stands I think... barely..." Her thoughts drifted into nothing seeing the blank expression on his face.  
"Don't you know, Bellamy? You're the rightful heir! You need to take your place as Lord, and then, once everything is settled... in a few years perhaps..."

Bellamy flinched.  
"Of course I knew. D'you think I haven't considered every possible option for Octavia's future? You'll take me when I'm a Lord, but not as a peasant, is that it?" He spat, recoiling when he saw the fear in her face.  
"Bellamy, of course not..." She pleaded, though what was the point with pleading now? All hope was lost.  
"And what about the 100? You would ask me to leave my people?" He asked, his voice dangerously low.  
"You would ask me to do the same thing!" Clarke shouted, and then there was silence. They stood face to face, noses almost brushing, his hands wrapped around her brittle arms. He let go gently, hoping he hadn't left marks. He turned towards the door, opening it and then pausing, looking back over his shoulder.

"I'm sorry for disturbing you, my Lady. With the fumes of the city, I must have gone mad., I thought, for a brief moment, that we were the same. I remember now, that you are the once and future Queen, and I am but your humble fool." He made a low bow.  
"May we meet again." He muttered, and his footsteps as he left seemed to match the painful beating of Clarke's heart.  
"May we meet again." She whispered to nothing, as she took wobbly steps to her bed, and fell onto it in a fit of sobs, mockingly reminiscent of her sobs a week before. The she had cried because she had met him, and now she was crying because he had left her behind. And it was her fault. When her handmaids started to file into the room again, she didn't even bother to right herself, ignoring their whispers and soft reassurances. It was over now. Her last link with her freedom was gone.

Bellamy leapt onto his new horse, ignoring the curious looks the horse opposite him gave him. Strange creatures they are, horses that is. They seem to be able to sense everything. He took the reins of the second horse in his hands, as he led the horse towards the gates, towards the city and away from her.

* * *

"She was upset you say? When he left her chambers?" Wells repeated carefully, trying to keep his voice steady. The maid nodded earnestly.  
"More than upset your Highness. She was distraught, her cries were of real and true agony."  
Wells recoiled, his blood boiling in her veins.  
"So you think... he  _hurt_ her?" He whispered, then relaxed after the maid thought for a moment, then shook her head.  
"No, I don't believe so. There wasn't a mark on her, and no sign of a struggle. Will that be all your Highness?" Wells gave a weary nod, dropping a few coins into her open palm.  
"Yes, thank you Maya. You can return to your post."  
The girl nodded, and to her credit curtsied somewhat guiltily. Wells supposed no maid particularly  _liked_ to spy on her mistress, but Wells knew far to well which servants would sink that little bit lower for a few more pennies. There was always one with a sick mother, or a drunkard father, or a hungry child. Wells just happened to be very good at finding them.

It had been three days since Clarke arrived back into his life, and he'd seen her all of once. She wouldn't leave her chambers, wouldn't accept his visits, he'd seen food brought into her room, leave untouched. Finally he'd had enough of not knowing, and resorted to corrupting one of her poorer maids. He didn't feel good about it.

He paced back and forth outside her door, sometimes stalling, hand positioned ready to knock, only for him to pull away and start pacing again. Even when they were five years old and in short frocks and curls, nobody scared him more than Clarke Griffin, and now he was the crown prince, and she was a northern lady, and still she was able to intimidate him from behind a closed door, without even knowing he was there. She had that kind of power.

After several sickening minutes, he straightened his jacket and firmly knocked on the door. There was no answer. He pushed the door open, just enough so that his voice would leak into the opposite room.  
"Cla- Lady Griffin, it is Wells. Please, I just..." He sighed. "Clarke I just want to talk to you."

There was a pause, and then a shuffling. The door, swung slowly open, and he looked up to see Clarke staring at him. Her hair fell in the soft waves that had haunted his dreams since he was thirteen years old. Her eyes were still that piercing blue, filled with sadness and scorn. Absence doesn't seem to make the heart grow fonder, it would seem. She still hated him.

"Why are you here, Wells?" She said tiredly after brief moment of uncomfortable silence.  
"You have not left your room in three days."  
She raised an eyebrow.  
"I have just traveled from Ark to here, on  _foot._ Forgive me for spending some time resting." She hissed. He winced at her tone, but continued into her chambers, sitting on the low bench at the foot of her bed. She started at him, not without curiosity, and they both knew that this was the first and only opportunity she'd give him to try and fix what they once had.

"I know that you are being  _forced_ into marrying me Clarke, and I am sorry for it. I remember how much free will means to you. But, you should take into consideration, that  _I_ am being forced to marry you also."  
Clarke blanched, her expression almost comical in its shock and fury. Every inch of her face seemed to be saying "How dare you?"

"For the sake of your comfort, and my own, I will do everything in my power to make you happy. If that means never speaking to you again after our wedding day, then so be it. But there is something else." He said softly, rising from his seat and standing in front of her.

"Call me selfish or whatever you will, but I would like to think that my bride does not  _hate_ me." He said, though the lilt to his voice made the statement sound like a question. Clarke's eyes narrowed, but their was the telltale gleam of hesitation in them.  
"Forgive me for not pleasing the prince, but I  _do_ hate you!"  
Wells recoiled slightly, the tone of her voice feeling poisonous.  
"Why?" He asked softly, his hand itching to reach out and take hers. A spasm of confusion shot across her tired features.  
"You... you know why. My father is... dead, because of you."  
A quiet laugh of shock tumbled out of his mouth as stepped away from her. Clarke couldn't tell if he was now speaking to her or to himself

"All these years... all these years, and you still believe that? She never told you?" Wells said his voice filled with betrayal and anger.  
"She promised me she would tell you before you came here. That all would be forgiven. But I suppose... the oath of a woman who would betray her own husband cannot be trusted."

"Don't. Please don't." Clarke whispered, her heart pounding wildly against her chest. Wells looked at her incredulously.  
"You must have had your suspicions. You lived in that house for nigh on five years, the thought must have crossed your mind, and then stayed firmly planted in your heart."  
She collapsed onto the bench, lifting a shaking hand to cover her mouth, trying to hide the hysterical sob that was bubbling in her throat. Wells crossed the room swiftly, kneeling in front of her, and taking her free hand in his.

"Clarke I did not betray your father. But your mother did."  
After several moments of nothing but her shaky breaths, she let out a quiet "I know."

"It was so much easier to hate you than her. So I did."  
Wells squeezed her hand gently, pulling himself up to sit beside her. She released another sob, placing her head on his shoulder.  
"I wanted you to hate me, for a little while at least", he mumbled into her hair, "Until you were ready to look your mother in the eye knowing what she did."  
She raised her head slightly, until her eyes met with his.  
"Forgive me"

He gave her an easy smile, shaking his head slightly.  
"There's nothing to forgive."

They sat in comfortable silence for what seemed like hours, just him stroking her hair, and her crying into his jacket.  
 _This is where she belongs,_ he thought to himself.  _Not in the arms of some flowery knight, or a dirty peasant, whether she knows it or not, she belongs with me._

* * *

Bellamy stumbled out of the pub, an arm flung up against his eyes to protect them from the winter sun. There was a keen bite in the air now, and all could tell that snow was on the way. He took a few wobbly steps to the stables, and began to saddle his new horse. Butterfly seemed to give him a look of chagrin for not saddling her first. He couldn't bring himself to sell the horse. Damn her, but he couldn't do it.

Shortly after leaving the palace gates, he had found himself longing for something stronger than water. He allowed himself one drink, just to take off the edge of his pain, and make the image of her tearful face just that little bit fainter. So he sat himself at the bar, telling himself he'd have one drink and then he'd be gone.

That was four days ago.

Now he was ignoring the dull ache behind his eyes, and dull ache in his heart. Damn her.  
The aura of excitement filling the streets distracted him as he turned to look at the chaos on the road. People moved in masses towards a general something, mothers pulled children, girls pulled friends, and men shoved each other up the dirty street. The insatiable curiosity he'd had since he was a child drew him away from the stables, and to the crowds. He had no idea what was happening, but he managed to gather snippets of information as he followed them to the heart of the excitement. Something about  _The King_ and  _Prince Wells_ and  _an announcement._ He was able to guess what that announcement would be.

Sure enough the crowds brought him to the Castle, in front of the huge balcony that was built for such announcements as these. The King's appearances to the people were rare enough and had attracted a substantial crowd. The rich and poor alike had gathered, knights and milkmaids and merchants who had abandoned their stalls. Beside him there seemed to be some sort of weapons dealer who had left his shop in such a hurry he was still holding two bows. Noticing Bellamy's bemused glance, he gave him a laughing nod.  
"Be a good fellow and hold one for me? I can barely see the king, and I want to get a good look at the future queen."  
He didn't wait for an answer, thrusting one of the bows into Bellamy's chest. Suddenly there was a blare of trumpets, and their attention was brought up to the balcony. The King walked out first, hand raised aloft, waving to the people. Behind him came several courtiers, and then the prince and  _her._ Even from this great distance he could see everything about her, the icy blue of her gown, the elegant style of her hair, the sadness in her eyes.

He couldn't hear what the King was saying not over the distance and the noise of the crowds, but he could see what he was doing. He stepped forward with his son's hand in one hand and Clarke's in the other. He raised them in the air, before joining them together, and how the people cheered with joy. Jaha stepped back allowing his son and future daughter to wave and smile at their people, beaming with pride. The crowd sang and shouted and applauded, and for moment everything felt joyful, everything felt happy and good. And then the bowman beside him shifted, and raised his weapon, strung with an arrow, and fired towards the royal family. And the happy moment ended.

* * *

 

Bellamy lurched forward, as if he could somehow prevent the arrow from hitting her from this distance, if he just moved quick enough. Once it registered in his mind that the arrow was not destined for her, the relief that coursed through his blood was almost sickening. Better anyone, than her. He counted three beats of his heart between the moment the arrow met its target and the moment heads began to turn to him in the chaos. In those three heartbeats, two words repeated in his head, seeming to match the  _thump-thump_ of his heart. Not her, not her, not her.

He felt someone push into him, and instinct kicked in. It took him all of one breath to add the bow in his hand, the chaos of the people and the missing space beside him together. He knew in this pandemonium that the truth would play no part in his judgment, and it took him a second breath to start running. He threw the bow to the ground, and began to shove the crowds out of the way, not caring that every movement he made was a sign of guilt. His chest was on fire, his eyes burned, and his heart fought against his head. Every step was a step towards where he had to go, and a step away from where he wanted to be.

Finally he was down the alley, and could see the inn approaching. He ignored the startled looks the few drunkards hanging around the front gave him, and practically crashed into the stables. He leapt onto his half saddled horse, and urged him out the doors, just as the heavens opened, releasing its freezing tears onto the earth below. He half remembered that he had no food, no supplies, no nothing except the sopping clothes on his back, and the leather-bound dagger in his left boot.

As he thundered towards the city gates, he imagined the mob that was already swarming, baying for his blood, his flesh, his head in exchange for the soul he, or rather that they  _thought_  he, had just claimed, and he wondered if she would be leading them, or if she would feed herself to the horde, to try and sate their hunger for his blood.  
The gate warden's shout of protest disappeared as quickly as it began, as Bellamy bolted through the gates. His relief vanished quickly, as he remembered that no matter how much distance he put between himself and the city, between himself and the king, his life would never be the same again.

Someone had made sure of that.

* * *

God works in mysterious ways. Clarke had heard the phrase muttered in some way or another, enough times that it was the first thing that crossed her mind when the arrow had descended from the heavens. As Wells' blood spilled over her fingers, runny in consistency after mixing with the icy rain, she felt that God's ways were not mysterious in the way she had previously thought. No, they were mysterious in their cruelty, in the violence of His actions. How could the all-merciful Lord that was preached from the alter,  _desire_ for this to happen?

She ran beside the knights that held Wells, half helping them carry him through the corridors of the castle. She heard Jaha shouting from behind her, his voice muffled with the screams of the ladies they passed and the prayers of the courtiers who ran with them.  
Bile rose further into her throat, every time she glanced back at Wells' face. His mouth was slack, his dark skin already tinged with grey. It was the glassiness of his endlessly staring eyes that made her want to scream that it was no use, why were they running for the master of medicines, when it was too late? She'd seen death before, she caused death before, and she knew it now. Wells was gone.

She woke screaming, her hair slick with sweat, her nightgown stuck to the small of her back. Pulling the drapes aside, she swung her feet out of the four-poster and padded softly towards the window seat. Was it still considered a nightmare, she wondered, if the events of the nightmare had actually occurred?  
She hadn't slept the first night, standing vigil in her bloodsoaked gown, as if her presence by his corpse might call him back. She was pulled away by her maid, at around noon the following day. What was her name again, Mary? May? Maya. A nice girl. Thoughtful. Sincere.

Clare knocked the pillows off the wooden bench, and then lifted the seat, revealing the hollow storage space underneath. She moved aside her cloak and riding habit, her fingers brushing for a moment against a pair of gloves, their huge size a constant reminder of who they really belonged to, until her hands met with their target.

She had expected the nightmare. She was always one for repeating the events of the day in her sleep. She just hadn't expected them to come so soon. She closed down the lid of the window seat, and then climbed onto it, pressing her hot cheek against the cool glass. It was soothing for a brief moment. She turned her face so her forehead pressed against the pane. Opening her eyes, she found it was dusted with white. Somewhere between that bitter morning and now, the rain had turned to snow. She wondered absent-mindedly, if Bellamy had made it out of the city. Where would they be now if she had left with him? Would they be married? Would Wells still be dead?

She bit back a sob that threatened to escape, drowning it with a mouthful of Monty's moonshine. It burned, but somehow the burning eased the pain a little. She fell asleep that way, flask clutched to her chest, head pressed against the window, counting the snowflakes that danced behind the thick glass, and wondering what God had prepared for her now.

* * *

"Lady Clarke!" A voice whispered with urgency. Clarke opened an eye, blinking the blurriness into clarity. Maya was shaking her, her face filled with blind panic. Clarke ignored the pounding in her head, and the ache in her neck, pushing herself off the wooden bench. Maya was already draping a wrap around her shoulders, half leading her to the door.

"Maya, what's happening?" Clarke mumbled, her voice still filled with sleep. Maya sighed, and pulled her into an alcove in the hall. There was a heavy pause as a gaggle of maids flounced by. Clarke's brow furrowed in confusion when she noticed the chamber pots and wood baskets in their hands. The candles were still flickering and Clarke suddenly noticed the chill that kept dancing over her skin.

"What time is it?"  
"A little after sunrise. I'm sorry to have woken you, but his majesty asked for you." Maya muttered, as she began to lead her down the hall again.  
"At sunrise?" Clarke asked incredulously, before the answer dawned on her.  
"Oh...", she whispered, suddenly feeling the urge to lower her voice, "I'm not supposed to be visiting him, am I?"

"His physicians feel that seeing your grace may bring him unnecessary guilt, or..." Maya trailed off into ashamed silence.  
"Or he might blame me. If there wasn't an engagement, Wells wouldn't have died." Clarke finished. It wasn't as if the thought hadn't crossed her own mind. Maya shot a look of pity back at her.  
"We do not know that for certain. The assassination could have been planned for another time."  
Clarke blanched at her casual tone.  
"It was an assassination then?" She mumbled, hating how her voice wobbled. Maya nodded.

"There was several descriptions of a man carrying a bow, though, the descriptions of his face vary."  
Maya paused for a moment, seeming to be deliberating over something. She reached a decision, turning to her, and began;  
"Lady Clarke I feel I must warn you, some of the descriptions match the man who brought you here. Your other handmaids and I witnessed him leaving you that night, we saw your distressed state. We have all decided that if you think that he might have killed Prince Wells out of jealousy we will still keep your secret if you so desire."

Clarke felt all her blood drain from her at once. Bellamy kill Wells? The idea of it was unthinkable,  _unbearable_... the thought couldn't be entertained, not be anyone, not for a second longer.  
"No, Bellamy wouldn't do that, he's not a... a murderer."  
Maya didn't look convinced, but nodded. She curtsied, gesturing towards a battered looking wooden door. Clarke whispered her thanks to Maya's retreating back, before heaving open the oak door.

She appeared to be in one of the castles many turrets, if the cooler air was anything to judge by. An observatory perhaps. A cough brought her attention to King Jaha leaning heavily on a paper laden table. He gave a short laugh, knocking the papers around with the back of his hand.  
"Letters of condolences. As if kind, false, words make a difference."

Clarke approached him gently, like one would a wounded horse.  
"I'm sure the words are true m'lord," Clarke said kindly, "Wells was beloved by all who met him."  
Jaha gave her a sad smile.  
"That, is obviously not true. Somebody wanted him gone."

He let out a heavy sigh, turning his head to the candlelight. Clarke could see how much he had aged in the past days. She felt sure there were more lines on his forehead, more grey in his hair. Nobody could claim to love their son more than Jaha did.  
"You're too good for this city Clarke. Too pure. You should return to your mother, as soon as the snow passes."

Clarke let out a quiet sigh of relief. She knew that a king who respected his son less, would take the nearest woman who could still give him a child, being her in this case. She didn't really believe that Jaha would do such a thing, but a desperate man will do desperate things. She shook away the thought, as Maya's words about Bellamy began to repeat through her mind. She lifted her face to look at him again.

"Why did you call me here, your Majesty?" She asked carefully. Jaha nodded, regaining his train of thought.  
"I thought you deserved to hear your fate from me. I am abdicating. I cannot continue as King, not like this, it would not be fair to my people."  
Clarke's stunned silence lasted only a moment, before she was on her knees, scraping her skin on the cold stone floor, even through her nightdress.

"Your Majesty, I must object, your country needs you now more than ever. They are already grieving the loss of a most beloved Prince, you would have them lose a King too? If your Majesty should leave now, it would throw the state into such chaos, God himself would only know what would happen to it."  
She took his weather beaten hands in her own, not caring that she was disgracing herself with her begging.  
"Must I remind your Majesty that he has no other relation, no other heir to take the throne in his place? Who does his Majesty intend to rule in his stead?"

Wells smiled, though it brought Clarke little comfort.  
"My Chief-Adviser, Dante Wallace, shall take my place, as is custom in such situations like this. I had never intended for my family's legacy to be cut so short, but such is the will of God."

He laughed again at Clarke's scoff. Clarke couldn't help but wonder if he laughed so much to hide the tears that threatened to spill. His expression suddenly became serious.  
"You are destined for something great Clarke. Dante has a son, Cage. If you feel you are still meant to be Queen someday, it would perhaps still be in your best interests to finish the season here."

The stopped suddenly, hearing trumpet fanfare from far below.  
"That will be Dante now. He traveled even through the snow to be here. You needn't fear for the future of your country Clarke, her fate is in good hands. All you need worry about is Grounders,  _your_ future, and finding the bastard that killed your fiance."  
He bent forward, placing a kiss on her forehead.  
"God be with you, child." He said as he left through the door.

"May we meet again." She answered, as a sense of impending doom firmly took root in her heart.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, sorry it's been awhile! Please forgive any mistakes you come across, because I'm sure there are many. As always, thanks to everyone you left kudos and comments, though it may not seem like it, they do encourage me to update as soon as possible!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke wonders what will become of her, and Bellamy comes clean with the 100 (sort of)

Some might find it funny, how quickly one's problems pale when new ones appear. Clarke watched Dante and his son walk into the castle from her bedroom window, and made her silent study of them. She had yet to officially meet them, there were more important matters to deal with than the dead prince's fiancee, but she often saw them coming and going from the gardens. It appeared that Dante liked to do business outside. Though she could not see their features from this distance, she imagined that Dante was much older than the King, that is the old King, as he moved with the slow, measured gait of an elder. Cage however walked as if he was already a King. Not with the faux confidence of Bellamy, but as if the world not only belonged to him, but that it  _should_ belong to him.

It didn't bode well for her.

What to do? Though she had already thought over her options countless times since the Kings official abdication last week, she had made little by way of a decision. So many different paths and none of them foolproof, which did not appease her logical mind.  
Her first option was probably the most obvious one- Stay and marry Cage. Fulfill what she came to the capital to do, what she gave up Bellamy for, and be Queen. There was the possibility that Cage wouldn't take her, or that he was simply awful, and she'd be miserable for the rest of her life. She had accepted the latter with Wells though, what was the difference? The outcome that scared her most though, was that the people would not accept their new monarchy, declare Dante and Cage as pretenders, and her along with them. How could she help the Griffin dynasty, when her head was removed from her body?

A similar option was to stay in the capital, and wait until King Dante had time to settle her affairs himself. Marry her off to some Lord, safely tucked away in some corner of the land, no longer a reminder that this new chapter of his life, came from chance. Clarke didn't care for this option, it required putting too much of her fate in the hands of another.

Third was to seek permission to return to Ark. Was there any point in that? Safe at home, with her dishonest mother, surrounded by starvation. Perhaps she could seek some sort of pension from the King, as compensation for the loss of her fiance. It wouldn't be much, but it might be enough to live on, until she found something more permanent for herself. Perhaps a convent.

And then there was her last option, more a daydream than a possibility. Run away to Bellamy. This disaster could be her blessing in disguise. They said that God works in mysterious ways more times than she could count at Wells' funeral, was it God's will that she marry Bellamy, and become the Rebel Queen? Why would He desire such a thing? And yet it was the only option that seemed desirable to her now... she had spent her entire life trying to please others, maybe it was God's will that she pleased herself?

She felt someone's eyes watching her from below, and felt she didn't have much time left to figure out what God's will just was.

* * *

Dante's coronation came and went, and Clarke spent her time endlessly embroidering Wallace colors and crests onto the largest of flags, to the smallest of handkerchiefs. It was tiresome, pointless work, that demanded an irritating amount of attention and patience. She smirked to herself, when the idea of Octavia being forced to sit in a stuffy room, constantly sewing the same pattern, came forth in her mind. She didn't amuse herself with the idea for long, as thoughts of Octavia were always accompanied with thoughts of Octavia's brother.

Maya was her only comfort, bringing her news of the new court, if there was any mention of Clarke's fate, but most importantly the thoughts of the people.  
"There are some who call for the restoration of the Trigedakrus." Maya whispered as she combed through Clarke's hair.  
"What nonsense, everyone knows the Trigedakrus are gone. Jaha saw to that during the rebellion nearly thirty years ago."  
Maya shook her head.  
"People have been whispering for years, but now more than ever. They say one branch of the family survived, fled to the Ground Forest, and that a Princess Alexia Trigedakru now leads a force of fearsome warriors, hidden within the woods."

Clarke froze at her words. Rumors and myths for the common people, rumors she would have scoffed at before, but was she not chased by a tribe? Grounders, Bellamy called them, even Jaha used the term. If this Alexia led a force against the Wallaces... Would it not mean a full war? How many would flock to this Princess?  
Maya seemed worried by her silence, and Clarke gave her a reassuring smile.  
"Utter nonsense." Clarke muttered, though unsure herself. What she had dismissed as  _utter nonsense_  before, had been proven very true as of late.

Finally, on the third week after Jaha's abdication, a knight came to her chambers, and brought the message she had both been dreading and anticipating.  
"His majesty King Dante, desires the presence of Lady Clarke." He said formally, as if Clarke had not been waiting for those words for almost a month.

The walk to the grand hall seemed endless, and yet too short all at once. All eyes were on her as she entered the room alone, the crisp sound of her hard boots hitting the stone floor echoing around them. Eyebrows were raised at her lack of slippers, but Clarke didn't care. She wanted to be ready to leave at less than a moment's notice. The Capital had always been dangerous for her, but now, more so than ever.

After weeks of only seeing the new King and his son from her window, she could finally determine whether her first impressions were accurate, hoping that they weren't. Her heart sunk a little, as she studied their features.  
Dante was indeed a frail old man, but though his face was lined with age, it did not lack kindness. She met his eye, and he gave her a smile that suggested they were old friends.  
 _Perhaps he_ thought _they were old friends,_ Clarke mused to herself.  _Perhaps the old man was senile._

His son however. All it took was one look at him for Clarke to know he was not an option. He was far more advanced in age than herself, which she knew was common enough in marriages, but still made her uncomfortable. He was not unhandsome, but there was a cruelty in his smile, and in his eyes, that could not be denied. Clarke knew that if Cage was a cruel man, she would be no exception to his cruelty.

"Lady Clarke!" Dante said cheerfully, extending her his hand. After the proper formalities were exchanged, Dante asked her to walk with him in the gardens. Clarke's answering smile was not forced, for she had not been outside in days.  
The air was bitter, and the snow was thick, but Clarke relished in the fresh air. How she ached to be back in the countryside, not confined to this tiny section of false nature.

"Lady Clarke, please accept my condolences for your Fiance's passing. And know that I am aware you lost out on more than a husband. Where is it exactly you are from?" Dante said gently, almost condescendingly. Clarke didn't care for his tone.  
"Ark."  
"Clarke of Ark. Was the rhyme intended?"  
"I believe so."  
"How quaint. And what are your prospects?" Dante continued, as if he were painfully unaware that her entire future rested on this conversation.

"Not good, your majesty, if I may be frank. We were hit very hard by the sweat a few years ago."  
"Very hard indeed I heard." A new voice spoke from behind them. Cage made a low bow, which Dante and Clarke answered.  
"Father, Lady Clarke. My Lady, if  _I_  may be frank, how does a Lady of a small family, with little by way of fortune, become betrothed to the crown prince?"  
"My father was friends with King Jaha."

Cage raised his eyebrows. Clarke thought she had taken him by surprise, enough to silence him, before he answered with;  
"This was before your father's banishment I presume."

Clarke faltered, finding she couldn't answer. Cage seemed satisfied, and left towards the stables. To his credit, Dante looked uncomfortable, touching her arm, and redirecting her back towards the garden path.  
"Please forgive my son, he likes to end a conversation on his own terms. Perhaps he can make amends when you dine with us tonight?"

Clarke gave him a wide false smile. Naivety had protected her at the 100's camp, why not here?

"If it would please your Majesty." She answered sweetly, relaxing inwardly as Dante looked pleased.  
"My Lady Clarke nothing would delight me more. You see, one of King Thelonious' final requests was that I take care of you. I find myself thinking, what better way to honor the old king's wishes than by making the girl he wanted as a daughter, Queen. Or at least, a princess for now." He said with a wink. He seemed to take Clarke's silence for encouragement.

"I'm sure you'll find that Cage has many admirable qualities. My son is strong and brave, and an excellent hunter. I've heard him called the best marksman in the country."  
Dante was too busy beaming with pride to notice how Clarke had frozen in her tracks. When he finally realized she had stopped, he looked at her with confusion.  
"My Lady are you well?"

No. No she was not well. She made her excuses, feigning tiredness. Dante waved her off with a pleasant smile, obviously not realizing what he had just given away.

That cruelty, that demeanor as if her were all but King, and now an excellent marksman as well? No doubt he was ambitious as well. Cruelty and ambition were always a dangerous mix.

_Had she found Wells' murderer?_  That thought alone would mean treason if anyone found it out. But Lord knows what people willing to do for power.

She half marched, half ran to her room, ignoring the curious glances from soldiers and servants alike. Finally she barged into her chambers, startling poor Maya, who was changing her bedclothes. She swung open her window, gulping in the fresh air, determined to calm herself and think rationally.

What did she know about Cage? That he was ambitious, and a good shot. How could she accuse a man of  _this_ on only that information. Yet, in her heart, she knew that something was wrong, Wells was beloved by the people, only the power hungry would want him dead...

Either way, could she marry a man she believed capable of murder after five minutes of knowing him?  
No. Never. Nothing was worth that.

"Is there anything I can do, M'lady?" Maya asked, her voice filled with concern.  
Clarke felt she was mirroring her expression, ashamed of what she was about to ask Maya to do.  
"Do you mean that? Anything?"  
Maya looked a little unsure, but nodded.  
"Anything that was right."  
Clarke thought for a moment, before deciding that this was the only way. She spoke as she rummaged through her trunk, taking our parchment and a pen, while sorting through furs and cloaks.  
"I need you to deliver a message. Before you agree, know that the journey will be long, and dangerous, forbidden even, and God knows that it will be cold."

Maya paled, but appeared resolute.

"Who am I delivering the message to My Lady?" She asked, her voice strong. Clarke took a heavy breath, as she lifted out a huge pair of gloves from the trunk.  
"What do you know of the Rebel King?"

* * *

Bellamy Blake was angry. Exceedingly angry. Just when life had kicked him in the balls again, it of course pissed on him as well, just to ensure he knew that he was nothing. Now, after two weeks of trudging through that ridiculous cold, afraid to sleep, afraid to stop anywhere, he was on top of that, Clarke-less. What had he had done in his past life, exactly, that made him deserve this much misery.

After arriving back at the camp, neck deep in mud, dragging a half-dead horse behind him, he had been quite happy to drink himself to an early grave. He spent a week ignoring Octavia's and then Miller's attempts at reasoning with him, but then Murphy entered his tent, beat him senseless, and reminded him of who he was. He was their leader, and didn't have the luxury of giving up. Winter was on them, and they were only half prepared. He went back to work and for three days it seemed that life had returned to normal.

And then Octavia ran to him with mild panic spread across her features, Miller and Murphy close behind her.

"There's a Grounder here, he wants to talk to you." They whispered, afraid to cause a panic. Bellamy was more bemused than wary, knowing that when a Grounder messenger came to visit, there was bound to be fun.

They walked over to the main entrance of the camp. Miller and Murphy were unsure if they should bring weapons, and if they did, would they be seen as a threat. In the end they decided on bringing a broadsword and a bow.

Their guest was tall and strong. His head was shaven and his skin decorated with multiple tattoos of twisting vines and leaves. Bellamy couldn't help himself from turning to Octavia and whispering,  
"Is this  _your_  Grounder?"

He began to introduce himself to the stranger before his shocked sister could reply, but didn't miss her small nod.

"Friend, I am Bellamy the chosen leader of this assembly. I bare you no ill will, but must tell you that if you are here to ask for my sister's hand, you are going to be very disappointed." His confidence was lifted with the laugh of his people. He had forgotten what it was like to be seen as a king.

If the stranger was taken aback by his words, he didn't show it.

"I am Lincoln. I am here to return your wife's horse and deliver a message."

For the first time Bellamy noticed the second steed beside the tough looking Grounder beast that Lincoln had arrived on. The painfully familiar white stallion was as different from their dirty animals, as winter is from summer.

"Exodus." Bellamy mumbled, and the horse pricked his ears at the name. Lincoln patted the horse's rump, as he trotted over to Bellamy, throwing his mane in aggregation, irritated at being touched. Bellamy nodded in thanks.  
"You've delivered your token, now what is your message."

"The Commander demands an audience with you. She has been informed that you were recently in the city and desires your knowledge of it." Lincoln said, his words carefully rehearsed. Polite words, that subtly hinted that refusal wasn't an option.

"Is your Commander thinking of visiting the capital? You can tell her it isn't very nice this time of year."

Lincoln didn't answer. Bellamy though a look at Miller, who simply shrugged. He had just as much a clue on what the Commander wanted as Bellamy did, which was none at all.

"What would the Commander offer us in return?" Bellamy asked loudly. This commander must know Bellamy well enough to know he wouldn't accept without payment.

Lincoln sighed.

"Help throughout the winter months. And... She would be in your debt." Lincoln obviously didn't like that fact, judging by the disdain in his tone.  
Bellamy nodded slowly, before tapping his leg twice. He and Miller had long decided on this way of communication decisions. Two taps meant yes, one meant no. Miller gave a minuscule nod of his head.

"We accept the Commanders offer. But eh... you'll understand we'll want the meeting on our land."

"None of it is  _your_ land." Lincoln snapped, but after being given a sharp look by Octavia, seemed to soften a little.  _Maybe there was something to their courtship_ Bellamy mused, before returning his attention back to the task at hand.  
"I am sure the Commander will accept that term." Lincoln muttered.

After giving a wary look to the men around him, he leapt onto his horse and began to turn to leave.

"You shall hear from us soon." Lincoln said, before turning his steed out the gates at full gallop. Octavia watched him wistfully until he had disappeared.

She looked at Bellamy carefully, waiting for his reaction, her expression screaming "not now" at him. With a heavy sigh, he handed over Exodus to her.  
"I'm sorry I couldn't bring Butterfly home. Will a purebred stallion do as a replacement?"

They all looked at him curiously.  
"You don't want to send it back to Clarke?" Octavia asked, seeming more shocked when Bellamy shook his head.  
"She has much bigger problems than a missing horse." He muttered stalking back to the small plots of land they tried to keep clear of snow for crops and animals. His answer didn't seem to satisfy Miller who came marching after him.

"Bellamy, you still haven't told us what happened in the city. We deserve to know why you're being an ass!"  
When Bellamy ignored him, he yanked on his arm, pulling him to face him.

"You came back, two weeks late, half dead, without any sort of explanation. Are you going to tell us why, or will I ride back to the city, and drag it out of Clarke myself.

Bellamy let out a frustrated cry, before dragging Miller into the shack where they stored dried food and animal hides.  
"The prince is dead- murdered. I saw it happen."  
"Fuck, Bellamy. Have they found the assassin?" Miller whispered back, after several moments of stunned silence.  
"That's the problem, they think I did it. I can't blame them, I looked pretty guilty."  
After briefly explain the events of that afternoon, Miller digested the facts slowly, while Bellamy waited for the questions that would inevitably follow.

"Does Clarke think you did it?" He asked.  
Bellamy shrugged. "They don't have my name, only my description. It depends on if she recognized the description, and thinks I'm capable of murder, murdering her fiance even."  
And then came to question Bellamy hoped Miller wouldn't ask.  
"Why were you drunk in a tavern anyway?"  
Something in Bellamy's silence must have gave something away.

"Bellamy what happened with Clarke?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the short chapter, I'll make up for it next time. Just want to make a special announcement~ The Choice has been nominated for "Most Underrated Fiction" In the Bellarke Fanfiction Awards on tumblr, and I just want to say a huuuuggggeee thank you to anybody who nominated me, it means the world! There are some other amazing fics nominated in every category, so it's well worth your time voting! Check it out at least!


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Letters arrive and choices are made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm alive! I won't bore you with details, but I have been very busy. Updates will still be quite sporadic, but hopefully more often, and you won't have to wait another six months. Thanks to all my new followers and my faithful reviewers! As always please leave a comment if you enjoyed or have any predictions!

The snow began to fall that night, first light and soft, then thick and fast. The various fires and torches cast flickering shadows of grey and purple on the icy ground and with every movement Clarke felt sure they were caught. Her heart wasn't so much in her stomach as her stomach was in her mouth, and a quick glance at Maya's positively green face showed her she felt the same. The wet snowflakes obscured her vision as they caught in her eyelashes, so when the blurry shape of the stables came into view, it came as a surprise.

After making sure the stable boys were all asleep in the haylofts, Clarke motioned for Maya to follow. The cold numbed her nose, and the smell of manure and horse sweat was not nearly as severe as she expected. She quickly approached her stall- during her brief reunion with Wells, he had promised her a new horse, a promise that had been fulfilled posthumously. The animal flared her nostrils at the approaching figures and it took Clarke a while to calm down the high-strung creature. Why did people always insist on getting her such flighty breeds? She saddled the horse without paying much attention, instead seeing that all was prepared for Maya's journey.

"You have the letter?"

"Yes m'lady."

"And you know where to find him?"  
"I only know what little you've told me. An avenue of woodland, and then into the marsh. Once there, I'm to attract as much attention as possible. Yells, fires and smoke."  
Maya's voice seemed void of emotion. Servants voices always seemed to be that way when talking to their masters.

_"We're taught to sound that way so that we don't sound impertinent," Octavia told her once, sometime during the endless travel, "If you ask outright they'll tell you it's because it's easier to remember commands, but it's really so that ladies like you have one less reason to hit us."_

Clarke pulled tightly on the final buckle on the bridle and turned to Maya.  
"Are you frightened?"  
Maya gave a miniscule nod.  
"You needn't be. You're strong, and you'll be rewarded for your loyalty to the Kingdom."  
Maya shook her head and took Clarke's hand warmly in her own.  
"I don't do this out of loyalty to my Kingdom. I do it out of loyalty to you. God save you m'lady."

She clambered on to the horse, leaving a slightly stunned Clarke behind her. She kicked the horse into motion and fled through the gates, ignoring the yells from the confused and half-frozen watchmen. Clarke felt a wave of unease flood through her as she watched Maya's retreating figure.

Dear God, was she doing the right thing?

Clarke turned around, and felt her stomach drop. The stable, previously dark, was now ablaze with light, torches lit inside and out. Clarke knew what was awaiting her inside.

She entered as if she was being announced at court, her neck straight, nose pointed upwards. She met Cage's delighted eyes- delighted that he had finally caught her in an act of defiance- and held his gaze. His glee dulled to grim vexation under her unwavering pride.  
"Mistress Clarke. I assume there is an acceptable excuse as to why we find you here. I confess, I am unable to find one that would explain why a lady of your station stands in the stables unaccompanied."

"I was having a message delivered to my mother in Ark. I was not aware that this act is a crime, nor an unacceptable thing for a lady to do." Her strong voice was betrayed by her quivering hands. Cage nodded, relaxing as if the answer was acceptable.  
"Sending a message to your mother...," he looked up again, quickly, trying to catch her out, "...at night? Why the secrecy?"

"Privacy, sir, there is a difference."

He looked bemused at her defiance. Not the way Bellamy used to find it amusing, as if he admired her fire. No, Cage looked at her like she was a dog that still strove for the bone in your hand after you refused to give it. A dog that was about to be kicked.

He motioned two of his attendants, already mounted on horses, forward.

"Follow the messenger," He said his voice not quite hushed enough for Clarke to miss the order, "Bring her back."

He turned back, mocking surprise, as if he had forgotten about her standing there.

"Nevertheless, Lady Griffin, it does show certain... indecency. If you require privacy, you may rest assured that my men are to be trusted."  
 _Yes,_ Clarke thought skeptically, _they can be trusted to read the letter once it's in their hands._

He moved closer, his gait overconfident, swaggering, until he was a handswidth away.

"Your comfort here is my top priority until I can find a more... _permanent_ position for you." His gloved hands ghosted over the curve of her throat. Clarke was sure she didn't imagine his gaze flickering over to the great gates of the keep, or rather the array of heads impaled onto the spikes above it. The heads of those deemed less than loyal to House Wallace of late. Clarke felt her resolve weaken a little.  
 _Not that. Anything but that._

He fell back into his false friendly demeanor, just as easily as he had shaken it away.

"Poor child, you must be freezing. Escort the lady back to her chambers," He commanded, his expression triumphant

"See to it her privacy is maintained."

* * *

She knew her door was locked before she even opened her eyes. There was no faded warmth from a recently lit fire, no unwelcome sound of a chambermaid wrenching open curtains. No friendly "Good Morrow m'lady" from Maya.

There was no comfort at all.

All the same she bet at the door until her fists were raw, just for something to do. She had expected _some_ sort of reaction, an idle threat from a guard, a barked order to be silent. Instead there was nothing. Clarke wasn't quite sure if it was better.

After her struggles proved fruitless she meandered over to the window, and pondered for a while if she could survive the fall if she jumped. _Most decidedly not_ she concluded, and then wondering if it was coincidence that the Wallaces had moved her to this chamber. Dante had said it was a brighter room, more cheerful. Her mind now suggested that it was more secluded, more hidden. She was trapped.

She rested her forehead against the window with a dull thump, and watched the frosty patterns that stained the glass with each breath. How pretty everything looked in the snow. Icily pretty. Deceptively pretty. Dangerous.

Her life was out of her hands now. God willing, Maya had made it out of the city, and was now on her way to The 100. To Bellamy.

To the Rebel King.

* * *

Bellamy was tired. He was hungry. And he was beyond irritated.

It had been amusing at first. The Commander, as the woman insisted on being addressed as, was tiny, almost bird like. However, her dark make-up and heavy furs and armor made her seem six feet tall. Bellamy felt sure that such stubbornness could not be good for one's health. It was sure to get her killed some day.

Her stubbornness was only one of the reasons why the negotiations were continuing for so long. The Grounders refused to tell him why they wanted the information on the Capital. Bellamy felt sure that they were planning an insurrection of some kind, and the way the Commander was acting did little to quash his fears. He'd seen the unease in the City, all over the Kingdom for that matter, and if there was a rebellion... he didn't know what would be reborn out of the ashes. Or who would survive to see it.

Whatever suspicions he had about the Grounders origins before were now solidified. He had no doubt that the tiny Commander was the young Trigedakru princess. The way she walked, talked, even held herself, was reminiscent of the Lady he had left behind. She watched him with careful eyes, as if she could draw out his secrets simply by staring them out of his skull.

"Your information is not worth that." said the Commander's chief negotiator, Indra.  
"Our information is not worth two cows and a sack of corn!" Miller answered, his voice full with the exasperation Bellamy felt.

Indra slammed her fist on the table, rattling tankards and papers.  
"Tell us your information, and we will then know it's worth!"

Miller glanced over at Bellamy, his expression pleading for him to intervene. Bellamy had told the Grounders that they would discuss payment before any information was passed on. Miller had accepted his judgement without question, as always, but after a week of negotiations his patience was wearing thin, despite knowing the worth of Bellamy's knowledge. Bellamy thought back on the conversation, reminding himself of the knowledge's value.

_"So the Jahas are gone?" Miller asked, massaging his temples. Bellamy leaned heavily against the wall, crossing his arms tighter across his chest.  
"These Wallaces will not be able to control the country. The people have no love for Cage, and Dante will be dead by the next winter." Bellamy said gruffly, as if he could smother his unease with strength alone._

_"Clarke has no claim to the thrown now?"  
"None."_

They both knew the danger of the Grounders finding out that the new King's claim was so weak. There were so many who missed the old monarchy, despite their wildness and their flighty tempers. The unrest of the nobles and the anger of the poor was spreading across the country like a plague. The promise of a Queen as young and beautiful as Lexa was enough to inspire hope in the most miserable of peasant.

It would be enough to start a war.

A yell of surprise and the following commotion, brought Bellamy out of his mind. The Grounders grabbed weapons, some already pointing broadswords and bows at Bellamy. The commander looked wary, but ordered them down. Bellamy took that as permission and followed his men out of the tent.

Monty was attempting to drag a fine looking horse through the gates. A King's knight was helping him. He wore very expensive armor that looked suspiciously as if it had never seen battle. He wore his hair long, and it hung lank at his shoulders. Beside him, Jasper was talking a very dirty, very frightened, girl. She was dressed in a woolen cloak that was a little too big for her, and her posture screamed "servant". She seemed familiar, but Bellamy couldn't place her. She looked up, as he approached them, and her eyes widened in recognition. Bellamy walked past them, drawing his sword as he went, pointing it at the knight.

"State your business, soldier." He said icily.

The knight raised his hands in submission, inching away from the weapon.  
"I mean you and your's no harm. My name is Sir Finn Collins. This," he said pointing to the girl, "is Maya Vie, a lady's maid of Jaha Castle. She served Lady Clarke Griffin, who I believe you are familiar with."

Bellamy lowered his sword. Collins sighed in relief. Bellamy turned to the girl, now that he knew where she came from.

"What of Clarke? Is she in danger?" He said, before he remembered that he wasn't supposed to care.  
Maya nodded, stepping away from Jasper and giving him a grateful smile. The boy blushed pitifully.

"She has been kept all but prisoner in her chambers, and her future is uncertain. The King has refused her request to return to her mother. All her letters to Ark have been intercepted." She said quickly, as if this part of her message had been rehearsed carefully.  
Bellamy nodded, ignoring the curious looks and whispering from onlookers. He glared over at the soldier.

"And who is he? What role does he play in your mission?" Bellamy asked, fixing his grasp on his sword.

"I would not have made it out of the city if it were not for Sir Collins. He knew of Lady Clarke, and swore to help me." She said, and the soldier preened like a prized rooster. Bellamy rolled his eyes.

"What made you trust him?"

Maya froze, as if the idea of _not_ trusting him hadn't occurred to her. She fumbled in the pockets of the cloak for a moment before producing a battered sheet of parchment. She offered it out to him.

"She said it was for your eyes only." She whispered, and he could hear how curious she was to its contents.

Bellamy took the letter, and unfolded it with as little ceremony as was possible. He had to force himself to read it carefully, and was pained at how each word came to him in her voice.

He finished the letter, and felt the color drain from his face. Miller and Octavia were at his side in an instant.

"Brother?" Octavia asked, attempting to prise the letter from his grasp. She jumped when he snatched his hand away.  
"Bell? What does she say?"

Bellamy swallowed turning his face a fraction towards Miller.

"Inform the commander that no more negotiations are necessary. We will tell her anything she wishes to know. Octavia prepare for a town meeting."

Miller and Octavia didn't move. Everyone seemed to be staring at him, and even the Soldier looked curious.  
"Bellamy... why? What does the Princess _say_?" Murphy spoke up from behind him. Bellamy tensed, and began marching back into the tent.

"That we are going to war."

* * *

_Bellamy,_

_You are, no doubt, very angry with me, perhaps more so than I am with myself. Despite your very rightful hatred of me, I beg for your help. There is no one but you left that I can truly trust. We both know that Wells was murdered, but there is worse still. His killer may very well be close to my person as you read this. Forgive me, but I cannot say more, less this letter falls into an enemy's hands, and now I fear I have many._

_I have no right to ask this of you, but I fear not only for my life, but for the lives of many, and I ask you to help me. Help me before I am forced into betraying my King, my country, and worse still, you._

_Everything is in peril. I feel in my heart that war approaches, and when it does, I want to be beside you._

_My letter must be brief, and I must now bid you adieu, and pray for your arrival._

_Yours,_

_Clarke_

* * *

 

Winter was always difficult. Chilled fingers and empty stomachs would make the most cheerful of men grumpy, and most of Bellamy's companions were not cheerful at the best of times. Four months at least of dried fruit and salted meat, of paltry fires and of numbing cold. Bellamy dreaded the snowy months from the minute Summer ended. Snow was the worst of his many enemies.

And now he was going to _travel_ in it.

The Commander was pleased at first. Bellamy explained in detail the narrowness of the alleys, the illogical size of the streets, how one small fire had the potential to become a blazing inferno amongst the wooden walls and straw roofs. He watched as her dark eyes lit up, how she turned to her loyal subjects in childlike delight. He watched as something clouded her features and she turned back to him in suspicion.

"We have been negotiating for weeks. Now this...", she looked Collins up and down and raised an eyebrow, " _soldier_ comes and you suddenly change your mind. How do I know there isn't an ambush waiting to slaughter me in this Capitol?"

Bellamy sighed, folding his arms over his chest.  
"Because, you're taking me with you."

She looked stunned for a fleeting moment, then that petulant anger came back, and she all but stamped her foot.

"I never said we were going to go to the city." Lexa said slowly, faltering, unsure of what to do next. Bellamy rolled his eyes, placing his hands on the wooden table, leaning towards her. She flinched, but didn't step back.

"I will say this once, and only once. I do not care what happens to the royal family. Join them, banish them, kill them for all I care. Raze the city to the ground, and build up a new dynasty out of the ashes. I won't help you any more than I already have, but I won't stop you. There is a woman being held captive by the new king. I owe her a debt. She saved my life once, from your poison I might add. She has called for my help, she believes her life to be in danger. I _cannot_ lose her."

The Commander seemed taken aback by his intensity. She turned to her second, and spoke in the low guttural language of the Grounder clan. Her expression seemed animated and passionate, but Bellamy couldn't tell if she was arguing for him or against him. After several moments of heated conversation, she turned back to him, the haughty expression of royalty returned.

"You will have one day to find this woman of yours and rescue her before we make our attack. We will not wait for you, understand that. This insurrection has been in planning for years. Now is the time to strike, and I will wait for _no one_."

Bellamy nodded, ignoring the way his cold fingers throbbed as he gripped the table painfully. _Where were his gloves now?,_ he wondered.

"Understood."

* * *

There was no point in sleeping. He decided to spent the time between nightfall and sunrise checking supplies, and saddling horses for the long journey ahead. There would be enough to get his people through the winter, until he came back at least. If he came back.

They were meeting the Grounder army at dawn, and God only knew what would happen from there. With travel forbidden during the winter months, the army would either receive little attention or would be stopped almost immediately. Bellamy didn't care what happened to Lexa's soldiers, as it would be easy enough for one to slip away from such a large group if the need presented itself. Not that Bellamy was intending to travel with the Grounders alone.

He knew he would not be able to escape the soldier. The whelp had an overdeveloped sense of destiny, and probably believed he and Clarke were star-crossed or something similar. Bellamy was willing to let this fantasy continue if it meant Collins would fight for her. As long as the boy believed that when this was over there would be songs written about him and his Lady, Clarke was a little safer.

What Bellamy hadn't expected was for Miller, Murphy and Octavia to demand a place on the journey. Their logic was that there was strength in numbers, and that there was a greater chance of at least one of them stumbling upon Clarke if they all went. Maya gave them directions to Clarke's chambers as best she could, but it was difficult without a map, or knowledge of the castle's full layout. The girl admitted that Clarke may not even be there anymore. Maya herself would stay with the 100, under the enthusiastic protection of Jasper. He kept vague about details, but she seemed to know that her home may not be there for long should she return.

As for the rescue itself, Bellamy didn't have a plan, _exactly._ For the time being, it mainly consisted of _find Clarke, save Clarke_. He didn't allow his mind or heart to dwell on what came after. A vague idea of returning her to Ark danced around his mind, but where would be safer for her than here, in the middle of the woods, far away from court and kings and society that only wanted to hurt her? She could be happy here, he felt sure. She could be content here.

So lost he was, trying to find answers in Exodus's bleary brown eyes, he didn't notice the second person in the stables until they, or rather he, cleared his throat.

Bellamy turned to find Clarke's soldier leaning against the pillar of the door. He was staring at him with a glare of hateful distrust. It was probably, Bellamy felt, the same way he looked at Finn himself.

"What do you want?" Bellamy asked gruffly, carrying a saddle over to the new stallion that had arrived with this unwelcome guest.

"I can saddle my own horse." The boy answered, looking annoyed. Bellamy laughed.

"Why don't you then?"

The new silence was toxic, both waiting for the other to act. It was an energy that must have existed since the first men walked. That feeling of knowing that another man wanted the same woman you did. Bellamy hadn't felt blood lust in years, but this was not unlike it. Bellamy must have established his dominance, as Finn broke the silence first.

"What power do you have over her? Why should she turn to you for help first?" Finn asked calmly, abandoning the tack and saddle.

"Why would she turn to me before you, you mean?" Bellamy answered, trying to keep smugness out of his voice. Yes, Clarke thought of him first, but it meant nothing. It had to mean nothing.

"She trusts me. I saved her life before, she must believe I can do it again." Bellamy said, mirroring Collins' stance.

Collins didn't seem to accept the answer, taking a step forward. He was tall, and strong, but Bellamy was taller. He tried not to seem pleased by that.

"Can you?" He asked, the very question implying that no, he couldn't.

"We'll see, will we not?"

"I swear by God, if anything happens to her..." Collins started, and Bellamy rolled his eyes.

"I swear by God, Juno, and every Grounder deity that nothing will."

Something in his expression must have satisfied the soldier as he stepped back, nodding at their apparent understanding. He left the warm shelter of the stables and began to walk out, but turned back as Bellamy called his name.

"She's not yours to protect anymore." Bellamy said, making sure the underlying warning was heard. In the waning light of the single torch, Bellamy could see Finn's eyes darken.

* * *

There was exactly six thousand, nine hundred and twelve bricks in her room. She had counted every last one, even the ones behind furnishings and tapestries. She had read the three books she happened to have amongst her things five times each. She allotted two hours of every day to staring out of her window, waiting for a sign, a hint, _anything_ to suggest that today was the day he would come. An hour in the morning and an hour at night, of endlessly gazing out the frosted glass.

Today was the eighth day. If Maya had made it out of the city, today is the day she would reach the 100's camp. She may already have. The thought started a fire in her chest, and with new energy she attacked the door again, throwing her weight against it again and again, until, exhausted and bruised, she fell into a dreamless sleep on the stale coverings of her bed.

When she woke up again, there was somebody else sitting beside her. She froze, feeling their nimble fingers running through her hair comfortingly, brushing the greasy tangles off of her forehead. It felt familiar. It felt like... home.

She warily opened an eye, blinking away sleep, until the blurry face came into focus. Familiar auburn hair, worry lines, and stern eyes stared back at her, and suddenly she was pulled into a warm embrace.

"Oh my darling Clarke, what has become of you?"

Tears streamed down Abby Griffin's face as she stared at her daughter for the first time in over a month. All of Clarke's feelings of hatred and betrayal melted away as she clung to her mother as if she would otherwise drown, joining her sobs.

"Mother, I'm so scared, I don't know what to do, so _alone..."_ Clarke uttered between shaking breaths, and Abigail spoke soothing nonsense.

"I received a letter summoning my presence at court a week ago. Clarke I've never been so terrified, Kane returned home three days after you left saying that you had been attacked by bandits, and that they were ransoming you, that there was nothing we could do... Oh sweetling, so many things have happened."

The following quiet was only interrupted by the arrival of a tub of steaming water. Clarke felt like a small child again, and allowed her mother to lead her to the bath, stripping her of her nightgown and clambering in clumsily. Abby let out a strangled gasp at her daughter's starved frame. She could count every rib and vertebrae, and there was an ugly mixture of green and purple bruises spreading along her right shoulder and arm.

They said nothing as Abby soaped Clarke's hair, gently pulling her fingers through the worst knots, then taking a brush to the lesser ones. Clarke gingerly poked a finger at the new bruises, fascinated by their dull ache. She had forgotten that her outbursts would have physical consequences. She had a sudden flashback of kicking rough wooden furnishings with an aching foot, and then Octavia treating them in the same way her mother was now. As the water turned grey and cold, she pulled herself out, wincing as her feet met the cold stone floor.

She stared at herself as her mother braided back her wet locks, trying to find a similarity to the way she looked the last time she saw her mother. Then she had been a spurned little girl, with only one choice. Now she was a heartbroken woman with fewer choices still. Everything had changed. She had changed, and Abigail knew it.

"I'm marrying him aren't I? That's why he's called you here. I will have to marry him."

Abigail froze, her eyes shutting as if she was in pain. She rubbed at her temples with a free hand, and let out a heavy breath.

"You don't _have_ to do anything. He cannot stop you from returning to Ark, he has no claim on you."

Clarke stood up, pulling the heavy rope tighter around herself, as if it offered more protection from the world outside her room.

"You and I both know mother, this is no Jaha. There is only one way, and it his way."

Abigail sat back on the bed, smoothing out unseen wrinkles in her skirt. Clarke continued with her rant, feeling some tension ease from her shoulders as she all but screamed. Her mother listened quietly to her daughter's fury, and with each sentence Clarke seemed to forget she was not alone.

"And in the end, Bellamy was right, nobody cares about me, nobody except him and-" She stopped abruptly, slamming a hand over her mouth as she gave a shuddering sob, fresh tears of frustration brimming at her already red eyes. She fell to the floor, ignoring Abby's arms coming around her.

"Nobody cares about me except him, and I've lost him forever."


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> DRAMA!

 

For the second time in barely two months, Bellamy was almost at the City. It was a journey he hadn't made in five years, and now, here he was again. Both times for the same woman. Maybe he was mad. What he felt for this goddamned princess did require a measure of insanity, he supposed.

There were three types of Nobles, that they had met on their journey so far. To pass time, Bellamy made wagers with himself, using what he knew of the families to guess what class of Noble they'd fall into.

The first, and most common, were those loyal to Jaha, and therefore to Wallace. Those who owed their current status and wealth to those usurpers and would defend them accordingly. However the fact remained that Sir Cage had demanded that all able bodied knights be sent to join the King's Army. So when these noble houses sent men to defend themselves against the Grounder hordes, the men were either too old to swing a sword or so young they could barely lift one. There were defeated with pitiable ease.

The second were those who were indifferent. Those who had been humiliated, banished or had even seen family members executed by Cage and felt no unease at the thought of his reign ending prematurely. They turned a blind eye to their passing, and the Grounders made their way through their land as if it were a nameless field.

The least common and third kind, were the enemies of House Wallace, and therefore the unprecedented allies of Lexa. Some families had fought on the side of her family and had paid the price. They had been shunned and ridiculed by the other royalty because of their role in the rebellion and had thirsted for vengeance for near twenty-five years. Cage had snubbed them by not requesting soldiers and it would be his downfall. One such ally was their greatest advantage so far.

The Wick family had been the chief provider of weaponry to Lexa's family before the rebellion. After the war that honour had been given to another family, and the Wicks had struggled to survive since. However they had not forgotten and the next generation had continued to perfect the craft. Their only son, Kyle, was eager to to join the Grounder army and avenge the wrongs done to his father. He was also eager to supply them with whatever weapons they required.

Finn, who had become Lexa's main negotiator due to his charm, seemed uncharacteristically awkward when speaking to the family.

"You're not Sir Finn _Collins_ are you?" Kyle Wick asked, amusement dashing across his face. Bellamy woke up a bit, noticing Finn's uncomfortable expression. Seeing the man fluster was already more entertainment he'd had in weeks.

Finn confirmed Wick's assumption.

"Then you know my young bride, do you not?" He asked, looking beyond thrilled. In contrast, Finn looked as if he wanted to die.

"You know that I do." He finally answered, fidgeting where he stood. His fingers seemed to twitch towards his sword.

"How is the Lady Raven?"

* * *

One day, while Abby was sitting with her in her room, Clarke heard the familiar _click_ of the door locking from the outside. Clarke's now healed bruises seemed to ache at the thought of attempting to attack the door again. At first, Abby remained stoically calm, confident that the door would be opened again. After three days her confidence lessened.

Meals came sporadically. They were left starving, until Clarke felt sure that this would be her end, she would surely die. Only then would the door open and some hardened soldier came with food. Sometimes a full roasted hog was delivered, with fresh fruit and warm bread. The cheese would melt and seep into the bread, the fruit would burst, stinging the edges of her mouth, and Clarke found herself wondering if marrying Cage would be _so very bad,_ as long as she could eat.

Sometimes they were given burnt porridge with rock hard biscuits and rancid butter. They would eat it with the exact same enthusiasm.

Clarke knew that they were, that _he was,_ trying to break her into docile submission. Cage knew her well enough to expect that she could endure all tortures, but to see her own mother submitted to them as well? It might be enough. It might have been enough, if Clarke had not known something he did not. Clarke knew that Bellamy was coming.

She ignored her mother's wheedling questions and threatening demands for the identity of this man she "had lost forever". Abby gave up after days of silence, and had taken to joining Clarke on her daily and nightly ritual of staring out of the window. However now, instead of asking what she was waiting for, she asked "who".

Yes, Clarke knew that Bellamy was coming and that he was close. She just felt it.

* * *

They moved in darkness now. It was too risky to march on the city during the day, and now with the castle in the skyline, Lexa decided that they should only continue their journey under the cover of night. Bellamy decided she just wanted to make their lives _more_ uncomfortable. The only thing that kept him awake was the thought of Clarke. How would he find her? Would she be alright? Imprisoned? Tortured... dead? Surely they would have heard if she had married Cage. It would not matter to him if she was another man's wife, he would take her away no matter what condition she was in. And if the worst had come and he found her dead he would not leave until every other soul in that castle was too.

She would not be dead.

Clarke was near. He could feel her. With every mile towards her, the pain in his heart lessened. His head became clearer. What worries did he have before now? There was only Clarke. Clarke and this goddamned cold.

Lexa came to a halt, holding her hand up to stop her army. It was time. Any closer and they'd alert the guard. Alert the guards to their intent at least. Their was no possible way that Wallace was unaware of their approach. Lexa dismounted, giving Indra orders on how to prepare for the morning. Bellamy nodded towards Octavia and the others, walking towards the Commander. She frowned at them as they approached.

"I had hoped your desire for this rescue would lessen as time passed. Obviously I was mistaken." She said clearly, her voice filled with the annoyance she felt.

"I don't expect you to understand. But rescue her I must. Don't get in my way."

Lexa smiled a little, a vindictive smile, as if she were amused by his intensity. God, but she was irritating.

"Peace, Bellamy. Our terms still stand. We begin our attack the day after tomorrow. You will have a full day to get in, find your woman, and get out again. I do not doubt you, you're a fearsome warrior. I will feel your absence in the battle. I wish you would rejoin us, after you've returned your lady to safety."

Ah, this was what she wanted. Another soldier.

The rebellion was an issue that had crept up on him. He had refrained from telling Lexa of Clarke's identity, knowing that the Griffins must have fought with Jaha. But any leader had to be better that Cage, and Lexa would be an ally. _His_ ally. The 100 would be left in peace. He could be king of the rebels, with Clarke at his side. All he'd have to do is participate in this one last fight, this one battle, and end his troubles. He did not have long left to make this choice.

"I'll consider it."

* * *

Passing through the gates had been unexpectedly easy. The guards were expecting an attack yes, but with travelling banned that did not expect visitors. Under the cover of darkness the five of them pretended to be scouts, soldiers returning from patrol. Nobody questioned it. At least, not until they were long gone.

"How much further to the castle?" Miller whispered, squinting through the murky fog. Dawn had begun to break, and morning mist seeped down from the mountains. Already people were beginning to stir and set up their stalls. Bellamy quickened their pace, as they had to reach the armoury before it became busy.

"Not long now."

"Are you sure it will work?" Murphy asked, skeptical as always. Collins rolled his eyes.

"My plan is sound. With so many new soldiers, no one will recognise us, or rather, be suspicious for _not_ regonising us. We'll steal armour, and then search for Clarke individually, we'll cover more ground that way. Whether we find her or not, we regroup at the Station Inn before the church rings the bells for noon. _All of us."_ Collins said, glaring at Bellamy, and didn't look away before Bellamy acknowledged him.

"Yes, all of us. If we're not all there by half past the hour, whoever is remaining leaves. Under no circumstances do you wait, or go back to look for the missing. _Leave._ Lexa's army attacks tomorrow and anyone who is not a Grounder is in danger."

They reached the castle shortly after. Bellamy found it hard not to think back on the last time he was there, knowing what he knew now. He should have just taken her away with him, Prince Wells and her duty be damned...

They entered the great hall together, and he saw his comrade's eyes widen at the luxury around them. Neither Miller or Murphy had ever been in such a building, and Octavia was too young to remember it fully. Only Finn seemed to have kept his wits. He nodded at them, and then took off up the stairs. Bellamy found himself hoping that this would be the last time he'd see him. His departure reminded the others of their mission and they too left in separate directions, leaving Bellamy alone.

He had formed a semblance of a plan before their arrival. If Clarke was being kept captive, that meant that someone had to be bringing her food. The food came from the kitchens, and so that would be where he'd begin his search.

Having grown up as a kitchen boy, he was fairly sure he could find the kitchens in a castle as fine as this. Blake castle was almost as grand... he could remember the small blurry details of it. Like where the tapestries hung, but not where his rooms were, the colour of his mother's favourite dress, but not the sound of her voice.

He hadn't thought about that place in years.

The kitchen was huge. It was already filled with people, soldiers and servants and cooks. It was steaming, great big puffs of mist from pots big enough to feed fifty. One soldier walked towards one stove, his voice booming, reducing the others to silence.

"Food for the Lady Clarke?"

One cook, a tiny old lady with wisps of grey hair escaping from her cap, jumped at his demand. She wiped her hands on her apron, and lifted a small tray from the stove. He took it from her, lifted the lid of the pot, peered in, and laughed.

"A meal fit for a queen don't you think?" He said, moving to leave. The old cook tugged on his arm.

"Oh sir, don't ye think I could give 'em somethin' more fitttin'-like? She's done no wrong, an' she _is_ to marry Sir Cage. How can she birth him a son, if she's as weak as a kitten?"

The knight pushed her away with his free hand.  
"Do you question _Prince_ Cage's judgement?" He asked, but his words were filled with threat. The cook spluttered her apologies.

"Lady Clarke betrayed his Highness's trust, and until she regains it she will be fed what the Prince believes she deserves." He spat into the pot, to the cheers of the other soldiers, and then passed Bellamy on the steps. Bellamy waited for a moment before following him.

The knight was no fool. After several moments he turned and demanded what Bellamy wanted.

"I just wanted to see the wench's face when she sees her breakfast." He said, trying to put menace behind the words. The knight nodded with a small grin.

"You'll be disappointed. They haven't been fed in two days, they'd eat cow shit if we gave it to them in a bowl." He finished with a snort at his own joke then continued up the stairs.

He didn't notice when Bellamy unsheathed his sword. Maybe he _was_ a fool.

* * *

Clarke lifted her head when she heard the sound of heavy boots approaching her door. _Food._ The sun had risen and set twice since her last meal. Abby slept fitfully on the bed, having picked up a fever over the last few days. Clarke prayed for a light broth that would perhaps tempt her mother into eating. It would not do to panic. Panicking would only give Cage what he wanted. A reaction.

Keys jangled for a second, and then the door swung open. Clarke turned and lay her face back against the window, watching her breath turn to frost on the glass. Looking at the soldier was against her rules. Pretending that they weren't there was easier than not begging them for help.

She jumped when the tray and pot clattered to the ground, and heard the knight let out a startled cry of pain. Her mother started in her sleep, and wailed when she saw the spilled stew.

The knight knelt in the mess, his hands raised in submission. A sword rested on his shoulder, grazing the bare flesh at his throat. Bellamy waited a moment before he brought the hilt down on the man's head, rendering him unconscious on the floor. His sucked in his breath when his eyes met hers and Clarke stood up from the the window seat. He dropped his sword to the floor.

Clarke took that as all the invitation she needed.

It felt like home when he caught her, his arms tight around her, one on her waist, the other in her hair. The cold of his armour stung her skin, but she clung to him tighter, breathing him in, wondering when he would disappear.

"You came." She whispered, annoyed at how breathy she sounded, how _weak._ He laughed and he hugged her tighter still.

"You called, didn't you?" He answered, and she didn't care anymore, if this was all in her mind, and if he'd be gone when she opened her eyes. She didn't care.

* * *

When her breath finally returned to her, and her heart calmed itself, she began to pull away. Bellamy shifted immediately, dropping his arms as if she had burned him. Their eyes met for a moment, and Clarke was reminded of how horrific she probably looked. Her hair was stiff with grease and her skin felt grimy with stale sweat- that bath when her mother arrived was her last bath since the door locked. She wiped her eyes, and moved to where her mother sat frozen on the bed.

"Come mother, Bellamy is going to help us" She said, pulling her from the sheets. Something flickered in Abby's eyes, and she jumped to her feet, pulling her soft slippers on swiftly. She stood in front of Bellamy as if he didn't tower over her, and he gave a low bow, just as Clarke knew he would feel compelled to.

"My Lady Griffin." He said calmly, though Clarke saw how his eyes kept watching the door and sleeping guard on the floor. While he informed Abby of Clarke's letter and how he intended to rescue them, Clarke began lacing up her boots. She pulled open the heavy wooden chest and her hands found the now familiar gloves. It had been such a comfort before, sliding the supple leather over her fingers and feeling like Bellamy was holding her hand, even though he was so very far away. After a few seconds deliberation, she grabbed the smaller dagger, sliding it into her boot, as she had seen him do not so long ago.

Bellamy was tying the the fallen knight to one of the bed's poles, securing him with strips torn from the sheets. The soldier's head lolled to one side and he let out a soft cry of pain. Bellamy's hand moved to his sword for a moment, until he was satisfied that the man remained unconscious. Something changed in his countenance and Clarke knew it was time to leave. She took her mother's hand in her own and nodded for Bellamy to lead the way. He stepped in front of them, and Clarke again marveled at how he filled the doorway, ducking his head under the arch to step into the hall. He truly did not belong here. He looked... trapped.

As the ran through the halls of the castle, her heart felt as though it would burst. She thought that they were caught at every new shadow, every noise. Once they had entered the main part of the castle, Bellamy slowed their pace, trying not to alarm the other servants and knights. Clarke and Abby didn't turn any heads, as they were so filthy, even in their finer clothes.

"So he's Prince Cage now? I did not know that it was so easy to declare oneself royalty." Bellamy asked as he nodded at a passing soldier. He looked at them curiously for a moment, then shrugged and continued on his way.

"Yes, Sir Cage's delusions of grandeur extend now even to his title. Dante is a steward nothing more. Cage has no claim to the throne." Clarke said, hoping that her words would become true, simply by her saying them. Yes, Cage had no claim to the throne. But that did not seem like something that would stop him. Bellamy was still watching her carefully, trying to determine just how far her fear ran. She decided to keep talking.

"The Wallaces will never be able to keep the throne. Some noble family will say that they have a greater claim to it, and there'll be a war sometime in the future, and then there'll be a new King."

"Or Queen." Bellamy suggested, and he was smiling, and Clarke saw immediately that he knew something she did not.

"Bellamy... what have you done?" She asked, and Bellamy opened his mouth to answer, but the voice that spoke was not his.

"Yes, Bellamy what have you done?" Cage asked, and Clarke felt her blood run cold as the snow outside.

Bellamy drew his sword.

"It is customary, boy, to answer when spoken to by your superior. Answer me, what have you done?" Cage asked, looking as if he were bored and thrilled all at the same time. Bellamy glanced at Clarke, and somehow his grimace comforted her. When he returned his gaze to Cage, he was no longer Bellamy Blake. The Rebel King that Clarke had not seen for so long had returned.

He shifted his weight onto one foot, and rolled his shoulders underneath his heavy armour. He nodded his head back towards Clarke.

"I attempted to rescue the Lady, Sire."

Cage gave a laugh, and his soldiers joined in. He silenced them with his gloved hand.

"And were you successful?"

"Not presently." Bellamy answered, with all the same confidence as Cage.

Cage took a step towards him, his eyes narrowing in confusion. Clarke knew he was intimidated, he had to be, for Bellamy had not only entered his fortress, but was about to escape it with Cage's most guarded asset. Bellamy didn't falter under his scrutiny, and Cage's eyes flickered with disappointment.  
He was taller than him, but Bellamy just seemed _stronger._ Wilder, untamed, manic. Dangerous.

"Bow before your King, _boy."_ Cage hissed, his voice filled with menace, and spittle landed on Bellamy's tanned cheek. Clarke willed him to comply, hoping he knew that his pride could not help them. Better to be humbled today and live to kill tomorrow.

Bellamy, of course, did not not move. Cage lifted his hand and struck him across the face, drawing blood with his heavy rings. Bellamy winced, but didn't make a sound, and Clarke's heart bled for him. _Dear God Bellamy, just do as he says,_ she thought futilely

"I gave you an order. Drop your sword, and bow before your ruler!" Cage yelled, and the weight in his voice made even his own soldiers flinch. Bellamy gave a small huff of annoyance, and dropped his sword. Cage looked pleased, until he saw Bellamy turn and kneel before Clarke.

He lifted his hand, and grasped at her skirt, raising it to his lips.  
"My Lady." He said, and bowed his head, and no one doubted the sincerity of the gesture.

The moment did not last, as Cage crashed the hilt of his ornate sword across the back of Bellamy's head. Abby gave a shriek, and Clarke jumped forward to catch him, but Cage caught her in his arms, in a cruel mockery of a comforting embrace. She watched Bellamy drop to the floor, his eyes glazed over, though he did not seem unconscious. Two of the soldiers lifted him from under his arms, and dragged him to the side of the hall. He struggled, and it broke Clarke to see him so strong and yet, so helpless.

"Return Lady Griffin to the tower," Cage barked to the remaining knights, "but bring Lady Clarke to my chambers. Do it quietly, we don't need anymore rumours flying around the City."

_What rumours?_ Clarke found herself thinking despite everything.

A knight began pushing her down the hall, yelled when Clarke kicked him. Whether she was trying to get to Bellamy or her mother, she did not know. Cage gripped her upper arm, and pulled her close to him. She could feel his breath on her neck, and fought the urge to scream.

"I will kill him, you can depend upon it, but whether I kill him quickly or... _slowly,_ now that is up to you."

* * *

It was dark when he came to her.

She had sat alone in the Prince's chambers for what seemed like days. She threw everything she could lift against the door, feeling a little satisfied that no matter what happened to her and Bellamy, at least Cage would be even _little_ inconvenienced. Then she watched the fire die, huddled beside the embers, and watched the last light in the room go out. And then, when there was nothing left to do, she waited.

Looking around her now dark and dim surroundings, it was hard for her to imagine that this was once Wells's room. Everything seemed cold and tainted by Cage's presence. She wondered, if she should survive this, would she ever again be able to look upon the castle without bile rising to her throat.

Shrouded in nighttime, she heard the door unlock with an ominous _click._ Cage entered, dressed for a hunt, illuminated only by the lamp he was holding. If he was surprised by the state of his chambers, he didn't show it. He walked around the room, stepping over the broken glass and papers that now littered the floor. He removed the darkness with each step, lighting new candles at every wall. Soon, Clarke was squinting in the new brightness. She gasped in horror when Cage came into focus.

His white breeches and cape were stained red. His creamy leather gloves were dripping with fresh blood, as if his own hands had been mutilated. He wiped them on his snowy bed sheets, leaving behind streaks of crimson. Even his face was speckled with it, like gory freckles. _It couldn't possibly be all Bellamy's,_ Clarke thought in terror, _no one could lose that much blood and live._

"Your Rebel King endures, dearheart, so you may rest easy."

He saw Clarke's shocked expression and laughed.

"Yes, your lover was _persuaded_ to reveal his identity. He lasted longer than anyone might have guessed, but... I can be very charming. " He said coolly, trying to gauge her reaction from her face. He was disappointed.

"No tears? Sweetling, you _are_ cold. Well, you can relax knowing that you need not worry your little head about him for much longer." He walked back towards the door, opened it, but froze in the doorway.

"Forgive me, I meant you need not worry _about_ his head for much longer. He loses it at noon. Tomorrow."

* * *

She had never worn so fine a dress.

It was rich purple, the kind that she should not be allowed to wear, for she was not royalty. Dante had given her special permission. Or so Cage told her.

It was embroidered with spun gold, swirling around her waist and chest. Her long, billowing sleeves were sheer, so that her too- slender arms could be seen through them. Her cloak matched the gown, the same deep purple, and was trimmed in ermine. Her hair was expertly styled at the back of her head, golden tendrils looking almost white under the snowy sky.

She was allowed to wear her boots. Her maid, not Maya of course, had laced them up at dawn, and had found Bellamy's ivory knife inside. They stared at each other for a moment, before she tucked in neatly beside her calf, and nothing more was said. Clarke found herself wondering if that action would cost her her life, as the girl made her respectful curtsy and left.

Shortly after Cage left, she was moved to a different room. She found she could not sleep, not that she expected to. The winter sun had not yet risen, when an army of handmaids entered the room, washing her hair and body, dealing with new bruises and cuts, while tending to old ones. The long jagged cut on her arm had healed, but left behind a line of shiny puckered skin. Clarke wondered if it would always be there, a constant reminder of a different life.

He was making her attend Bellamy's execution. She knew this as soon as Cage left, it was written all over his smug face. The maids confirmed it, chatting amongst themselves, gossiping about the man they were about to watch die as if they knew him. They were excited to watch him die, this thief, this blackguard. This rebel.

"I heard he killed fifty of the King's men over a disagreement at cards."

"Well, I heard that he can fire an arrow from 100 yards." Another said smugly, as she combed and plaited Clarke's hair.

"I heard that he has the most beautiful voice, and can enchant a woman simply by singing."

Clarke snorted.

The girl looked at her in disdain, and finished her hair with a sour look.

There was a huge crowd assembled at the execution block, despite the cold. For people who hadn't seen their future queen since their last prince was murdered, they didn't seem at all interested in her presence. So many had heard tales of the Rebel King and his 100 men, and now here he was, to be beheaded for his crimes. Clarke wondered, that if circumstances were different, would she be among them? So many things had changed since she was Ark. Not just for her, but for them. Her people. The air seemed to be filled with something new, a tension that she didn't understand, but felt all the same. That the whole world was different now.

Cage was addressing the people, standing proud and tall, as Dante waved from behind him. Clarke was seated respectfully at Cage's side, and was ordered too look demure and soft. While Cage spoke about the eternal punishment that betrayal deserves, Clarke reached down, and pulled the long thin knife from her boot.

The world was not black and white anymore. It was not split into good and bad, light and dark, love and hate. The lines are blurred. As Clarke watched the man she loved climb the scaffolding to his death, and felt her heart race, she wondered if there was a right or wrong choice here. All she had was her own selfish want, the cold knife in her hand and his first words to her echoing in her head.  
 _"There are only two sure things in this world, Princess- Life and death. What will you choose?"_

And in this changing world, all Clarke knew was that she would only ever choose him.

Cage listed the crimes that Bellamy was accused of, pausing at some of the more dramatic ones, waiting for the crowd to jeer. Bellamy stood still on the stage, and almost seemed to be mocking them. He also seemed to be avoiding looking at her. All too soon Cage was done, and the knights turned Bellamy to face his executioner.

"Do you forgive me for what I must do sir?" He said in a voice that almost seemed familiar, and Clarke's brow furrowed in confusion. She clutched at her knife tighter, and rose to her feet. Cage gave her a look, but shrugged, and Clarke breathed a sigh of relief.

After Bellamy nodded his forgiveness, he was then turned to the priest and the holy woman beside him. They blessed him, and there was nothing else to do. Clarke watched as he was blindfolded and pushed to his knees. It was time.

She drew back her arm, holding the dagger in the way he taught her, aimed at the executioner. She was about to let it fly, when Cage caught her arm, twisted it, and she gasped in pain as the knife dropped to the floor.

"Slowly or quickly" he whispered in her ear, and she screamed as Bellamy raised his arms to show he was ready, because she was not, would never be ready, to watch him die. The executioner lifted his axe and let it fall upon Bellamy's neck.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I'm back! New chapter, please leave a comment if you enjoyed it at all! On another note, I am looking for a cover/picture for this story, so if any of you are good with manips and have some time, please let me know! Enjoy!

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! My first fanfic to be posted to this site, hopefully you enjoyed this chapter! Let me know if I should continue to post it here or not.


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